


What's on a Man's Mind

by dioscureantwins



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Crack, Crossover, F/M, Humor, Sherlock Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:56:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He walked over to the workbench and turned his back to her. Slowly and deliberately he slid out of his coat, ensuring his jacket shifted slightly upwards as he draped the coat over the workbench to allow her a good gander at his tightly-clad arse. The calculated lewdness of the gesture felt degrading but he calmed himself by reasoning that a single good performance would suffice to have Molly Hooper back where he wanted her again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's on a Man's Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Disrespectful handling of donor material. Disparaging remarks about some films featuring Leonardo DiCaprio. Some mentions of sex and referral to drugs, nothing overly exciting though. No further warnings apply.  
> Time setting: somewhere between S2.01 and S2.02.  
> Beta: the masterful lady_t_22o. Go and check her Den Of Great Folly at LJ to see why I consider myself a very lucky woman. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course  
> Thanks to: the lovely leopardwrites for cheering me along.
> 
> This story was written for the sherlockbigbang fest. Please go over to the community at LJ to admire all the other fics and art that will be posted there the coming weeks.

Sherlock stood outside in the long empty corridor bracing himself. He didn’t know whether he was mentally fully prepared yet for the undue amount of flustering and blustering that he would be treated to once he passed through the door in front of him. He sighed and let his eyes drop down to the Harrods shopping bag that dangled from his left hand. It was no use dawdling here, trying to shun the unavoidable. He needed fresh supplies. He had to beard the lion’s den of the lab. He knew Molly Hooper was lying in wait for him, desperate after not having seen him for two whole months, ready to pounce on him the moment he set foot over the threshold of the room the length of which she would be pacing like a caged animal.

***

A South-African diamond-smuggling case that had taken a little longer than he had reckoned on had been the reason he hadn’t been to visit Molly for such a long time. The case had been great fun, requiring him and John to chase the smugglers over half the continent. They had camped under the stars and slept in shantytowns, been kidnapped for ten days in all, separate and together, and even spent three days and nights in jail. They had rafted down wild rivers and rushed over hidden mountain trails. John’s soldier training had proven itself invaluable many a time. 

It had all ended satisfactorily with fifty men locked up in prison for a good few years - including the brains behind the organisation – and a nice cheque in Sherlock’s name that ran into six figures.

Back in London they had been confronted with an irate landlady. An eight-hour power-cut had occurred shortly after they had left for the African continent, and it had spoiled the contents of both the fridge and the freezer. Mrs Hudson had met the task of cleaning up literally eyeball to eyeball as she had dealt with the repellent task of stowing things away. She'd had to put three partly decomposed left feet, an assortment of fingers and several deliberately cut-up ears into a hazmat bag, retrieving them from the bloody sludge that had coalesced in the bottom drawers. After giving the appliances a thorough swipe with Domestos she’d called Mycroft to demand his assistance in the removal of all the offensive body parts from her house.

The moment she had heard his key in the front door lock – she still had remarkably good hearing considering her age – she had rushed out of her flat to hurl her grievances into Sherlock's face. 

The very nice sapphire brooch he had bought her as a souvenir present hadn’t been enough to mollify her. For that a celebratory dinner at Angelo’s together with Lestrade – whom she had taken a partiality to – and John’s extradition of a steady stream of cups of tea with a plate of Hobnobs on the side had been needed. Thank God she had finally abated under John’s constant guiding presence. Residing in a flat over the head of a simmering landlady had proven to be rather distracting, not conducive to The Work at all.

Once the problem of an unreasonable landlady had been solved he had decided on a little shopping expedition. In fact, he had been quite angry with Mrs Hudson for throwing his supplies away. She should have refrozen them in the proper manner. He was sure he would have been able to contrive some very interesting experiments concerning partly decomposed and refrozen human remains. Maybe even write a little treatise for the website. He had been on the brink of opening his mouth to start his reproach when he had caught John’s warning look. They had been living together long enough now for him to acknowledge John’s assertions of their landlady’s moods were quite accurate most of the time. So he had pursed his lips – gnashing his teeth – and flung himself onto the sofa in disgust instead.

***

He heaved a deep breath and gave the door to the lab a tentative nudge with his fingertips. It swung open at the sesame of his hand, inviting him to brave the danger awaiting him beyond the threshold. He dashed inside, a desperate man, prepared for the worst. At first glance the confines appeared to be empty of its usual resident. 

Sherlock inspected the premises with a quick eye and discovered her hidden behind the screen of her computer. About a year and a half ago she had moved it so she would be able to observe him sitting or standing at the workbench, while she could pretend to be at work. He had seen through the glaringly obvious ploy straight away but never commented upon it. The arrangement left him with more working space so all in all he had profited by her decision to allow herself unlimited goggling opportunities. Her insistence on offering him a cup of coffee every time he entered her lab was more of a hindrance to his work than her drooling all over her own keyboard.

She looked up. He prepared himself for her chair to clatter to the ground as she leapt up in joy at the sight of him. She stayed put however. Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Hello Molly,” he offered with caution.

“Oh, hello Sherlock,” she answered in a breezy voice. “Long time no see. Greg told me you were away on some smuggling case. Did you and John have a good time? I think Greg missed you. Some nutter went on a murder spree while you were away … “

“Yes,” he cut her short. Lestrade had contacted him during his African sojourn about the case. Thanks to the incompetence of the police the man had been allowed to brutally slay twenty three people before being arrested for drunk driving. Of course it had turned out Sherlock’s description of the most likely suspect fitted the man like a tailor-made suit.

“Oh,” Molly said. “Well, I can see you’re not interested.”

“Quite.”

“Have it your way then.” She resumed her typing. He could detect from the sounds of her fingers tapping the keys she was not shamming but actually typing – he listened more carefully – a report on the death by natural causes of an eighty four-year old woman who had perished on the Tube between Victoria and Sloane Square.

This was strange. He stood pondering it in the centre of the lab, replaying their short conversation in his mind. So far Molly had acted in direct defiance of his justified expectations. What had she been up to during the past two months? Still, he hadn’t come down here to interest himself in the dull caprices of Molly Hooper’s mind but to hoard up on body parts for his experiments. He walked over to her desk and shook his bag in front of her.

“I need to stock up,” he said. “The last load got spoiled in that power-cut a month ago. Mrs Hudson threw away the whole lot. I’d like twenty fingers, the age and gender not important, two eyeballs, green irises preferably but if you haven’t got those I’ll make do with blue, three spleens and one liver. Oh yes, I could also do with a foot and a few yards of small intestine while you’re at it. If you could pack everything into the bag I’m off to see Mike. He still hasn’t sent me those reports on head wounds in car crash victims he promised me before I left for Africa. I’ll come to collect the batch in a quarter of an hour. Here, I’ve made you a list. Thought it might be handy in case you needed to check whether you’d got everything.” 

He whipped the shopping list out of his jacket pocket and held it out to her. She didn’t reach for it but just stared at him.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But I can’t do that.”

“What?”

“I’m not going to give you any body parts anymore.”

“What? Don’t be ridiculous. Why ever not?”

“Because it’s unethical.”

“What?” He realised he had repeated the question word for the third time now. He laughed in disbelief. “Molly, come on. You can’t be serious.”

“It’s unethical,” she stubbornly repeated. “I know I let you have whatever you wanted freely in the past and I’m sorry to disappoint you but I can’t allow you to plunder my morgue for body parts anymore. If you want anything you can fill out a requisition form and have it reviewed by the ethics committee. I don’t think you’ll stand much of chance, seeing as what you usually submit the materials to won’t exactly count as pre-approved research, but it’s always worth a try. Here …” She delved into a drawer and retrieved a form for him, holding it out while she went on. “You'll have to supply this in triplicate. You can send it to … “

A hot rush of anger travelled through his body. What _was_ wrong with the stupid girl?

“Molly Hooper,” he gnashed between gritted teeth. “Stop this nonsense and just give me my bloody body parts.”

She looked up at him with a cool gaze. “Once more. I’m sorry Sherlock, but the deal is off. From now on, if you want anything I’ll hand it to you after you can show me the forms with all the proper signatures. I need one … “

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he burst out. He pivoted on his heel and stormed out of the lab, the massive bang of the door as it fell shut behind him sending the walls of the old building trembling.

***

The taxi taking him back to Baker Street got stuck in a massive gridlock. He sat seething in the back for five minutes before he threw some notes at the cabbie and jumped out, deciding to walk instead in the hope of losing the most acute edges of his agitation. His mind was a swirl of emotions. Anger, incredulity, outrage and disbelief battling for the most prominent position in his breast. He bristled as his mind conjured up the image of her proffering the insulting stack of paper at him, repeating her pat phrase as if he were nothing but an idiot. 

Just as he reached the corner of Paddington Street and Baker Street the heavens opened and the rain that had been threatening all day started coming down in buckets, drenching him to the skin. The coat provided him with no protection against the onslaught of wetness at all, just adding to his general discomfort by turning into a waterlogged mass that clung to his frame, metamorphosed into a giant deep sea squid intent upon dragging him down into the Mariana Trench.

By the time he entered his key into the lock of the front door he had turned into a shivering boiling hot mass of frustrated anger with a heavy dollop of self-pity on top. He dragged himself up the seventeen steps to the flat and crashed on the sofa.

Downstairs Mrs Hudson started yelling about mud splashes on her carpet. He heaved a sigh and turned towards the back, drawing the fleur-de-lys brocade cushion a little closer. He wanted to jump up and shout at her to stop her gibbering but when he tried to raise himself his head merely flopped back and slammed into the cushion. 

John came out of the kitchen.

“Jesus, Sherlock, get a move on and get out of those wet clothes, would you? You’re spoiling the sofa and you’ll catch your death if you stay like that. How on earth did you manage to get this wet? Whatever made you decide to walk in this kind of weather? Why didn’t you take a cab?”

At the sound of his friend’s voice, annoyed and concerned at the same time, Sherlock let out a growl of frustration. He tried to slash at him, throw the cushion to stop him, but he couldn’t even lift his hand, it fluttered helplessly like a broken-winged bird.

“What? Jesus Christ, Sherlock. What is wrong with you? Get a grip on yourself. Come on, up you get.”

John hoisted him off the sofa and started undressing him. Sherlock let him. He was exhausted with weariness, as limp as a rag doll. At last John draped him on the dried off sofa, clad in his pyjama bottoms, a vest and his blue robe, a pair of warm socks on his feet. John shook out the blanket that hung over the nearby chair and tucked him in carefully. He felt Sherlock’s forehead.

“There,” he said. “You’ve already gone and done it. Caught yourself a fever. For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, how could you’ve been so stupid, you of all people.”

He stomped off to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Sherlock closed his eyes. His teeth started chattering. He was unable to keep his body from shivering. He was running a fever and realised he was in a state of shock. He would let John nurse him and when he was better again he would let Molly Hooper know exactly what he thought of her.

***

He opened his eyes to the disconcerting vision of Lestrade’s concerned face hovering closely over him. He sat up abruptly. Lestrade jerked backwards at the sudden motion.

“Jesus Christ,” they uttered simultaneously. Lestrade cleared his throat. 

“John called to say you were seriously ill,” he said. “You look rotten. How are you?”

Sherlock pondered the question for a moment. He felt awful. Every muscle in his body was throbbing with a dull pain. Worst of all was the anger still seething in his brain.

“Fine,” he said.

“Really? I can’t remember having seen you worse. Not since …”

“Yes, all right. I said fine,” he spat.

John came out of the kitchen bearing two mugs of tea.

“Oh, you’re awake,” he said. “I’ll make you a cuppa as well.” He handed Lestrade his tea and went back to the kitchen.

“Here.” Lestrade stooped and picked up a fruit basket from the floor next to the coffee table. “We all chipped in. Bought you a card as well.”

He made to hand Sherlock the card. Sherlock looked up at him, disdain curling his lip. Lestrade sighed and laid the card next to the fruit basket.

“You could say thank you, actually,” he started. Sherlock looked at him some more. “Or well, I guess you really couldn’t,” Lestrade ended lamely. “Jesus.”

“There you are. You’re going to accept this and you’re going to drink it.” John had come out of the kitchen, grabbed Sherlock’s hand and forced him to take the mug of scalding hot tea.

“How have you been doing, John,” Lestrade asked him. “You must have had a whale of a time, I suppose.”

John installed himself in his chair with his tea and the card. “This is really very thoughtful of you, Greg. Thank you.” He peeked inside the card. “And Sally and Anderson and Dimmock as well. How is Dimmock? I haven’t seen him for ages. It hasn’t been too bad, to be honest. He’s been asleep mostly.”

Sherlock closed his eyes with a weary sigh. John and Lestrade droned on about his state of health as if he weren’t there. Fine, let them. What did he care?

“You know what’s odd though,” John said. Sherlock pricked up his ears. “We haven’t had a visit from Molly. I called to tell her, naturally, and the last time he was ill she tripped over her toes in order to come here as fast as humanly possible and have a chance to sit at his bedside. Now she just commiserated with me and wished Sherlock a speedy recovery and we haven’t heard from her since.”

“No, you’re kidding me.” Lestrade’s voice was a study in disbelief.

Sherlock closed his eyes again. He kept resolutely quiet.

***

Well, it _was_ strange. While he lay recuperating he had enough time left on his hands to ponder the problem of the odd behaviour of Molly Hooper. Had she been on an assertiveness training during his absence? Or had herself hypnotised into a state of indifference to his charms? 

His lips quirked at the last option. It would be just like Molly to believe in hypnosis. If she would actually have a broader scientific outlook on life surely she would have recognised hypnosis was nothing but a massive swindle and a delusion, aimed at persuading trusting innocents like Molly Hooper to fork up their money to support the trickster’s lavish lifestyle. He had actually devoted a whole page to the subject on the website, a neat piece of writing in which he took his interested reader by the hand and explained to him or her in clipped and concise prose why hypnosis simply couldn’t work. 

Well, here was his chance to prove he was right once more. He would allow her to catch a whiff of his scent wafting up from his chest out of his open shirt collar and present her with the illusion she would only have to reach out with her hand to be able to stroke his hair. That would bring down the brittle defences she had pulled up around herself during his absence in no time.

Tedious, certainly, but on the other hand he supposed he should be touched she had desperately decided to go to such great lengths while he was away to find a means of resisting him in the future. It showed how deeply she cared about him. Though why she would wish to do so was beyond him because he had always believed they both profited handsomely by the working arrangements they had tacitly agreed upon. He got to haul everything he needed out of her morgue while she got the chance to ogle his arse and his face and whatever else she might be interested in to her heart’s content. But women were nothing but fickle beings, the Bard himself had already noted that. 

***

After ten days John declared him fit for work again. The moment John uttered the last word of his verdict his phone rang. It was Lestrade to ask whether Sherlock was back to being his usual self. At John’s affirmation he asked for them to come over to a Whitechapel address at the greatest possible speed. 

The gruesome sight of a quadruple murder awaited them once they entered the premises. Anderson was already busy messing up the crime scene, Sherlock drove him off with a curt remark before he could do any more damage.

As he sat discussing the case with John a week later over a plate of chow mein at their favourite Chinese restaurant he was adamant Anderson was the reason it had taken him seven instead of five days to solve the case.

But he wasn’t really interested in that idiot of an Anderson, he mused as he sat plucking the strings of his violin the next morning. He had to form a plan of assault on Molly Hooper. The emptiness of the right hand bottom drawer in the fridge had struck him rather forcefully while he was searching for the butter for his toast. And why did John insist on reorganising the fridge every other bloody week?

Sipping his tea he decided upon the black pin cord suit and the purple shirt. Molly had almost literally flown for him the few times he had worn it before so he guessed the ensemble must hold a particular charm for her.

***

She was sitting behind her desk as he entered the lab. She glanced up and looked immediately down on her hands again. Good. He hadn’t even opened his coat yet.

“Hello Molly.”

“Oh, hello Sherlock.”

A report on the internal injuries of an octogenarian who had been hit by a car when he suddenly crossed the road was being typed at great speed. Her ponytail swayed with the effort as she sat bent over the keyboard. Looking over towards her he was struck by the increase in the amount of photo frames of every possible shape and size on her desk. He knew she was quite attached to that cat of hers, Toby, but surely there was no need to scatter pictures of the beast all over her workspace?

He walked over to the workbench and turned his back to her. Slowly and deliberately he slid out of his coat, ensuring his jacket shifted slightly upwards as he draped the coat over the workbench to allow her a good gander at his tightly-clad arse. The calculated lewdness of the gesture felt degrading but he calmed himself by reasoning that a single good performance would suffice to have Molly Hooper back where he wanted her again. 

He took a deep breath and lifted his hands to take down his scarf. He adjusted his jacket and shirt collar, checking whether the top two buttons were indeed open so she could gloat over the view of the dimple between his collar bones. He cast a quick look at his reflection in one of the shiny cabinet doors – perfect, as was only to be expected – and ambled over towards Molly. He perched himself nonchalantly on the edge of her desk, shoving some of the picture frames cluttering the space aside with his hand first. He leaned slightly towards her, his right hand thrown over his left leg so she could have a good look at his long tapering fingers as they rested with elegant ease against the tight musculature of his thigh, situating himself teasingly close to her hands which were still clattering away at the keys. At his close proximity their assuredness started faltering, and she made several mistakes before she slowed down, finally coming to a stuttering halt. 

He plastered his most engaging smile to the corners of his lips and made sure his voice was an octave lower, virtually drizzled with honey as he addressed her: “And what have you been up to, Molly, while I was busy being shot at in the dark heart of Africa?”

She blinked up at him, her wide dark eyes adding to the impression of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck.

“Errrrm, nothing special,” she said. “Just the usual, you know.”

He kept the beaming expression in place. “No I don’t, Molly. What exactly is the usual?”

“Well, you know, this and that,” she managed, deliberately avoiding his gaze. He smirked with satisfaction at the success of his ploy. He hadn’t counted on it being this easy. But then she had been head over heels for him ever since their first encounter.

“Your riveting conversation would keep me rooted to your desk forever, Molly,” he cooed, his tone soft and warm like brushed velvet, enveloping her in rolls of luxurious material and allowing it to whisper against her skin. The onset of a blush ghosted over her cheeks. “While we’re at it, maybe we could discuss the following?” 

He presented her with his most genuine smile, shifted a little closer. “I’m rather in need of a few supplies.” He extracted his shopping list out of the hip pocket of his trousers, thus ensuring she could latch onto the view of his taut abdomen beneath the shirt and the glow of the velvety material of his trousers over his hipbone. He shook out the crumpled list and started reading, taking care to keep his eyes locked on hers over the edge of the paper.

“Twenty fingers, the age and gender not important, two eyeballs, green irises preferably but if you haven’t got those I’ll make do with blue, three spleens and one liver. A foot and a few yards of small intestine.” He batted his eyelashes at her.

She blinked several times and drew her tongue past her bottom lip. Excellent!

“Yes, I remember, Sherlock. You asked the last time you came here. But like I told you then, I can't. I do have the necessary forms though.” Her hand headed for the drawer where she kept her stack of requisition forms.

He forced himself to remain calm, or at least to appear so.

“Molly, something must have been happening to you while I was away,” he purred. “You’re all different.” He edged a little closer, angling his upper body a little more towards her so she could gorge herself on the sight of his long white throat rising out of the purple border of his shirt collar. She gulped and looked away with great determination. Whatever for? Here he was, draped over her desk like a pin-up, for her to be carried away by the contiguousness of his body and his face, to be beguiled into floating over towards the freezer and start piling the goodies into his shopping bag, not for her to do her utmost trying to resist him.

Molly said nothing, she just sat there, breathing heavily. He eyed the jumble of picture frames on her desk. His mind leapt to a conclusion.

“It’s not? At least I sincerely do hope it’s not,” he started, commiseration flooding his voice. “There isn’t anything wrong with Toby, is there now?”

Her gaze travelled back to him, her voice drifted up at him from a faraway place when she answered him. “No, what makes you think so? He’s never been better.” She sounded like she was fighting a spell being put upon her; _his spell_.

Suddenly she sprang up and _now_ her chair did indeed clatter to the ground. She retreated to the security of the wall behind her. Her voice was a rush of abject misery when it came.

“Look here, Sherlock. I’m very, very sorry but it’s over, okay?. I … I’m … I’m just not going to freely allow you to plunder my stock of donor material anymore. Now would you please, please go away?” Tears started trickling down her face.

“Molly. I …”

“Please, Sherlock,” she whispered. Her eyes were screwed shut in tormented agony.

He stood up and walked over to the work bench. Behind him he could hear her sobbing. Slowly he put on his coat and donned the scarf again. Then he walked out.

***

Sherlock decided to walk back to Baker Street in order to clear his head. Never before had he felt so bewildered during or after a visit to Molly Hooper. They appeared to have revised the roles life had previously assigned to them. She was supposed to be the one feeling utterly balled up when they were in each other’s proximity, not he. And she had been shaken up, but instead of deliciously giving in to the sensation she had fought it and managed to send him away with her tears, in a state of utter bewilderment himself. 

John sat reading the newspaper with a cup of tea and a plate of digestives at hand. He looked up as Sherlock entered the flat. Concern immediately flooded his features. 

“Are you all right? Maybe taking on a harrowing case like that wasn’t such a good idea after all. Did you sleep well? I’ll go and make you some tea.”

Sherlock sighed. He dropped the shopping bag and struggled out of his coat and let it fall on the floor for John to tidy away later. He picked up a digestive and crashed in his chair.

“Anderson was harrowing, not the case,” he scoffed. “And I don’t want tea.”

He attacked his biscuit with an aggressive bite.

“Okay,” John said in that contemplating manner of his which indicated he was ready for Sherlock to start explaining away whatever needed to be explained away.

Sherlock ate the last of the biscuit and licked his lips. He held on to the comforting stability of the armrests as he mentally prepared himself to share his burden with John.

“Something’s wrong with Molly,” John said.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. When had John become so observant all of a sudden? Were his methods rubbing off on his flatmate at last? Well, it was about time.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Something is definitely wrong. She’s refused to give me any body parts.”

John’s eyes flew open in astonishment. “No, really? How’s that possible?”

“Exactly.”

“Whatever is the matter with the girl? Sherlock, what happened? What did you do? Were you rude to her?”

“No. I was just my usual self.”

“So you _were_ rude.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “John, stop it. In fact I was extremely nice to her. I even asked after that beast from hell of hers.”

“Maybe you being nice was what threw her off.”

“You’re not exactly being a great help. You could try and make more of an effort.”

“Yeah, sorry. It’s just … Okay. Talk me through it, please?”

“The first time was the day I fell ill. She flatly refused to have a look at my list. Started nattering about me having to fill in requisition forms. In fact I’m convinced hearing her denying my request gave me such a shock it must have been what actually made me ill.”

“Hardly likely, but continue.”

“The second time was just now. I was determined to get me what I want. Hence the attire.” Sherlock vaguely waved his hand in front of his chest. John nodded. “I was on the cusp of fulfilling my mission when she broke the spell by crying. She started to cry and asked me to go away and I …” He hesitated before carrying on: “I felt sorry for her and I left.”

John looked at him in amazement. “Jesus Christ. You did what?”

“I told you. I felt sorry for her and I left. I know it’s highly unprofessional behaviour but it’s the truth.”

John was staring at him open-mouthed. “No,” he said at last. “It’s wonderful. I congratulate you. You’ve risen above yourself.”

“And a fat lot of good it’s done me, John. Like I’ve said before, sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side. I should have stayed and tormented her a little further in order to get what I was after.”

“Well, you should be grateful to her for turning you into a better human being, even if it only lasted five minutes, but I can see you’re not inclined to see it my way.” John grinned. “Tell you what though, I know what’s keeping her from handing you your precious body parts. I think she got reprimanded.”

“What, why?”

“In fact, now I think about it I’m sure that must be the explanation. I’ve always asked myself how she could let you drag off such astonishing amounts. Somebody must have found out and told her to put an end to it.”

“That’s ridiculous. She should have told them off.”

John laughed. “Welcome to the real world, Sherlock. That’s not the way it works for us ordinary wage slaves. She must have endured a serious rake over the coals. She’s stuck between the devil and the deep blue sea now. Either give in to you or lose her position. I can’t say I envy her. Poor girl.”

Sherlock considered. It sounded like a likely explanation. Of course she should have denied the accusations and taken him into confidence the moment he returned. His mind was already whirring away with a plan to solve this little problem that Molly had deemed fit to blow up to enormous proportions. It would take him no more than a few hours to write her a neat computer program that would deftly explain away the differences between the material that was officially carted in and unofficially carted out.

He resolved to return to Bart’s first thing in the morning. And he would be _merciless_.

***

“Don’t you want to tell me something?” 

Sherlock had quite aggressively planted himself in front of Molly’s desk. She cowered behind it for protection. Yet there was also a glint of defiance in her eye as she gazed up at him.

“You should’ve told me about your problems with the general management. Look, I’m very sorry about that. It must have been a highly unpleasant experience. But if you’d taken me into your confidence, your dull insignificant problem would already have been solved and you would have spared us this whole ridiculous masquerade we’ve been going through since my return.”

She gaped at him in frank astonishment. “What on earth are you talking about,” she intoned, slowly and deliberately, as if she were talking to an idiot.

“Oh. Stop it, would you?” He almost shouted at her in annoyance. “Stop this damned theatre show! I know you got yourself a dressing-down by those dull, narrow-minded idiots who run this place. It’s the only possible explanation of your ridiculous behaviour. But _you_ of all people should know _I_ am just the person you need to solve your boring little logistical problem for you.” 

He plucked a memory stick out of his jacket pocket. “Here! Your salvation. A computer program that will whisk away any irregularities in your inventory. It’s virtually undetectable. The only one who may have had an inkling of this program being installed on your computer would have been Jim from IT but he doesn’t work here anymore now, does he? Let me install this now and no one will be able to get their fingers on you and then you can give me _my_ fingers.”

She started laughing. Now it was _his_ turn to look astonished. Molly Hooper, insignificant mousy Molly Hooper was laughing at him. At him, Sherlock Holmes, her god, her idol.

She hiccupped. Tears had started flowing from her eyes again but now it was merriment that caused them to well up. She wiped them away with a tissue she grabbed out of the box in front of her.

“Oh God. Only imagine. You wrote a computer program. Oh my. How long did it take you, Sherlock?” She fell against the back of her chair, her hands falling to her sides in helpless laughter. “Heavens, you must be high up there with the bats in the belfry. What did they do to you in Africa, Sherlock? Have you gone completely mental?”

He gritted his teeth. “I could very well ask you the same question. What _is_ the matter with you? Why aren’t you the same old plain Molly Hooper who always gives me what I want?”

She quieted instantly and threw him a look of malice. “I still am the same old plain Molly Hooper,” she informed him in icy tones. “Except I’ve decided I won’t give in to you anymore. Knowing you as I do I won’t feel offended by your supposition I’m incapable of screening the contents of my morgue from any unwanted scrutiny. Ridiculing and sneering at people is your idea of normal human interaction after all.”

She laughed. “I know you never listen to what other people tell you. Yet, I’ll try again. Listen, Sherlock. The deal is off. You don’t get to ransack my morgue anymore. You’re free to come and make use of the lab facilities. You’re free to come and goggle at my corpses, with or without Greg, I don’t care. But you’re not, I repeat not, to take one ounce of donor material back to Baker Street with you. I’ve told you twice already and it’s my decision and nothing you can say or do is going to change my mind. And now I’m off to go and get myself a nice cup of coffee.”

He was rendered speechless. She jumped out of her chair, rounded her desk and stalked out. He remained behind, nailed to the ground. His lip twitched.

The next moment he was in front of the door to the morgue, rattling the door handle. The door was locked. He rolled his eyes. As if a lock was going to stop him. He delved into his pocket for his lock picks and was standing in the morgue fifteen seconds later. He headed straight for the freezer. Stuck on the door was a note.

‘Sherlock,’ it read. ‘I know an ordinary lock on a door won’t be a hindrance to you. I just wanted to let you know that these freezers are under constant camera surveillance now. Furthermore each door is locked by a six digit code that will be re-set every day. By me. I’m _not_ going to give you the code. Yours sincerely, Molly.’

He whipped around. The CCTV-cameras were prominently hung just below the ceiling on the opposite wall. He pivoted on his heel back to the freezer again. Every door had a digital lock installed. He let out a yell of frustration. He snatched his phone out of his pocket and made a picture of each freezer door. Then he stalked out of the morgue. He didn’t bother with re-locking the door.

Back in the lab a phone started ringing. He looked around. It couldn’t be Molly’s phone as the ringtone that happily filled the lab was an electronic version of _Come fly with me_. He recognised the tune because it was one of Mrs Hudson’s favourites. Molly’s ringtone was a rendition of a sickening, overly romantic tune John had told him was the theme of one of the best-selling films of all time, some drivel about a boy and a girl on the Titanic. Sherlock had snorted with derision at John’s explanation. People were idiots, and Molly Hooper must be one of the biggest of them all.

The sound came from Molly’s desk. Lying on the edge was her phone. She had changed her ringtone. Why? He whisked the phone up.

“Yes.”

A confused silence hit his ear. Then he heard a man nervously clearing his throat. Next a voice came, shy and stuttering. “Oh, eerrmm, hello. I’m sorry. I thought I was calling Dr Hooper. I’m dreadfully sorry, really.”

“Yes.”

“Because, you see, well I’m quite sure I dialled Dr Hooper’s number. Couldn’t have missed because she’s right here under the M and she’s the only one there. I’m very sorry once again.”

“This is Dr Hooper’s phone.”

Baffled silence again. “Oh, I see. No I don’t. Because you’re not Mo … I meant Dr Hooper, of course. Most definitely not. Who are you?” The voice tried but failed to rise to communicate a sense of indignation.

“I was just about to ask you the same question.”

“Oh yes. Well, I’m Martin of course. Martin Crieff, you know? Well, you don’t know because I don’t know who you are. I … I called because we talked yesterday, me and Mo … Dr Hooper that is, and she was very upset because she’d been assaulted and I was calling her to ask how she’s feeling now and to say I won’t be home for a week at least because Carolyn has decided to reschedule our flights and I had promised to be home tomorrow at the latest and …”

The voice fell away. Sherlock waited. In the background he heard the vague humming murmur of a great mass of people. Several announcements calling people to their flights were echoing distantly as well. The voice came back but it wasn’t speaking into the phone.

“No Arthur, not now, I’m talking to Molly. No you can’t speak to her because I’m not talking to Molly. No, yes, all right, please go away. Tell Carolyn I’ll be there in five minutes. No, I’ve got to finish my call first.”

The voice resumed talking directly into the phone. “Hello, are you still there? Look, whoever you are, could you please tell Molly I called? I have to go, Carolyn is already annoyed at Douglas because he tried to smuggle a cart of caviar out of Kiev so I don’t want to upset her further by keeping her waiting.  
Would you please be so kind as to tell Molly I did try to call her. And could you …”

‘I’m not an answering service,” Sherlock growled into the phone and ended the call. He threw the mobile onto the desk. It smashed into some of the frames. They fell on the desk’s surface with a clatter, one of them face upwards. Sherlock looked, then he grabbed the frame. 

The image that beamed up at him from between the neatly painted hearts in various shades of pink that covered the wooden frame, wasn’t the expected malicious grin of Toby. Sherlock’s gaze was hit by a shy wavering smile that was thrown out of the frame by a boyish man with ginger hair who appeared to be hovering in the picture, desperate to get away. He threw it down and picked up another. The same boy, now situated next to Molly, glancing uncertainly towards her, Molly was all happy smiles looking at him. The next picture was the boy alone again, wearing – Sherlock huffed in derision – the uniform of an airline captain, gazing into the distance with a faraway yet earnest expression as if the idea of this total nonentity being allowed to fly an aeroplane wasn’t ridiculous in the extreme. The picture must have been taken at a fair or Madame Tussauds or something. 

One after the other of the frames was picked up and thrown onto the desk as Sherlock waded increasingly fast through the collection. They were all pictures featuring the same scrawny young man, either with or without Molly draped next to him, though there was one in which Toby made an appearance as well, spread out in the middle of what Sherlock supposed to be Molly Hooper’s sofa while rising his paw to slash at the boy. He appeared to be edging into the corner as far back as the cushions would allow him, with a look of utter terror spread over his features.

What did this signify? Had Molly Hooper acquired herself a boyfriend? Why and, more importantly, how?

Sherlock picked up the phone again. The screen was blank. He pushed the key to retrieve the last received call. The phone sprang to life. ‘I am [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] locked’ he read. 

Until he left for Africa he wouldn’t have had to take Molly Hooper’s pulse to know which letters to type to unlock the device but now he was less sure. He stood pondering for a moment. The voice he presumed to belong to the man whose image was scattered on prominent display over the desk had told him his name was Martin Crieff. ‘I am MACRlocked’? Sherlock huffed. No. He thought about the ringtone Molly had sported before the current one. She was a hopeless romantic so the letters would be a composition of the abbreviation of their names. ‘I am MOMAlocked’? It did ring a bell somewhere but no, Molly Hooper wasn’t one to place herself in the foreground, especially not when in love. He entered the solution – MAMO – and gaped at the picture of Molly and the boy snogging away for England that jumped up on the screen.

And she had accused _him_ of having gone off his rocker?

He checked the caller and text history and scrolled back through the story of a touching romance unfolding itself, from the first shy overtures – Sherlock scoffed with annoyance– to the flames of all-consuming passion that appeared to have engulfed the pair’s tender hearts. Sherlock read with revulsion how good Molly Hooper’s mouth trailing a path down the boy’s throat for the first time had been and how grateful he was for her to allow him to repay the compliment by … Oh, for God’s sake. Sherlock screwed up his eyebrows in disgust. 

He bristled with outrage when he read their exchange about his supposed attack on Molly Hooper’s chastity yesterday. As if that wasn’t exactly what she had wished for ever since she had first set eyes on him? The boy’s indignant commiseration sickened him to the very core of his being. He realised he had been on the brink of gaining his objective when Molly’s tears had moved him to let go. He chided himself for his stupidity. ‘Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock’ he heard Mycroft’s voice declare again. Never before or after had his brother spoken words more true.

But how was it possible this unlikely situation even existed? _What_ had happened while he was away in Africa? _Who_ was this Martin Crieff? _How_ had they met?

He understood the boy really was a pilot though he couldn’t imagine an airline hiring this dangling idiot. Until his online search brought him to the website of the company that had apparently decided to trust the safety of their passengers and cargo to this man he wouldn’t have presumed fit to safely wield a bicycle through the backstreets of a sleepy Cotswolds market town. 

Sherlock stared in disbelief at the line of dancing aeroplanes drawn by an untalented three-year-old cavorting over the screen to the accompaniment of Wagner’s ominous tones of _The Flight of the Valkyrie_. The people who had designed this website must be determined to guide MJN Air – he wondered briefly what the letters could stand for – into a state of foreclosure at the soonest possible moment. 

He quickly scrolled through the pages. His eyes flew over sentences composed by an overenthusiastic apprentice in marketing and advertising who had been high on a cocktail of alcohol and Benzedrine. They appeared to have been gushing out the drivel and not bothered about checking for grammar and spelling mistakes. The fleet consisted of one aeroplane – Sherlock shook his head disbelievingly. This wasn’t an airline but an airdot – and the number of personnel employed was exactly four, including the owner. 

Sherlock studied the photograph of the human assets of MJN Air that was displayed prominently at the top of the page. He made an effort to deduce what could possibly have motivated the personnel manager cum sole owner cum first flight attendant of MJN Air to award the position of captain to Martin Crieff when she was also employing a thoroughly capable pilot who had obviously weathered many a stormy flight. The solution hit him as he made the connection between her and the second flight attendant, another figure no one in his or her right mind would ever conceive of employing. Martin Crieff wasn’t paid for his services for MJN Air in return for being allowed to wear a captain’s uniform. God, what an idiot!

“What are you doing?” 

He pivoted on his heel. He had been so caught up in his deductions he hadn’t heard her returning.

“I was in the middle of the enthralling story of your passionate romance, Molly,” he jeered. “Touching really.”

“Give me back my phone.” She lunged for it but he held his hand up high in the air, out of her reach with a triumphant sneer on his face. “Now I understand your sudden refusal to give me my body parts. You should have told me you were that desperate for it, Molly. Together we could have worked something out. I might have been willing to consider your request just to spare you the indignity of digging in the scrapheap to find yourself this confounded idiot.”

Molly looked up at him with eyes brimming with loathing and anger. He was taken aback by the ferocity of her gaze. 

“You take that back,” she snarled. “I want you to apologise and take those words back. Martin is _not_ an idiot. He is kind, and considerate, and decent and a sweet resourceful lover. In short, he’s everything you couldn’t ever conceive of being.”

Sherlock sneered at her, his arm still raised to keep the phone out of her grasp.

“My God,” she laughed, the same hateful laugh that had shocked him earlier. “You’re still convinced you’re God’s gift to women, aren’t you? That Adler woman falling for you really made you lose all sense of reality. I feel almost sorry for myself when I think about all the years I wasted pining after you. Only imagine. I worshipped the ground you walked on. I didn’t wash the cups you’d used but drank my coffee from them for days after because _your_ lips had touched the rim. I collected the hairs that had fallen from your head while you were bent over my microscope. And they’re wonderful hairs, Sherlock, so soft and curly and such a deep glossy black. Too bad they grow on top of the head of a self-centred git without an ounce of feeling in his whole delicious body.”

She walked over to her desk and seated herself behind it. 

“Every morning I wake up now I bless the day I met Martin and was rid of this curse. And the days I wake up to find Martin’s dear sweet face resting next to me on the pillow are the best days of my entire life. I’d almost pity you, Sherlock, because you will never understand what I’m talking about.”

She drew her keyboard in front of her and started typing, ignoring the jumbled heap of frames that littered her desk. Sherlock was left standing with his arm reaching in the air like a beacon, transmitting a signal no one was interested in. Slowly he let his arm drop. The realisation he had lost his power over her hit him in the stomach. The surprise of it came close to the same sickening feeling of insecurity and loss that had threatened to overwhelm him when John had stepped out of the changing booth at the pool. But he had only had to properly look at John to know his fears had been unjustified. The same sense of relief didn’t flood him now.

He stood shaking with anger, trying to rally his wits.

“For God’s sake, Molly,” he snarled. “I’d already always suspected it, but it's a shame you had to prove yourself to be as big an idiot as the rest of humanity.”

He threw her phone down among the frames in disgust and stalked out of the lab, slamming the door shut behind him. Above his head a crack appeared in the ceiling.

***

“John,” he called the moment the door of 221B fell closed behind him. He ran up the seventeen steps two at a time. “John!”

The flat was empty. Stuck to his laptop was a note to inform him a number of colleagues at the clinic had reported sick and John had been asked to work overtime. Damn! Sherlock snarled in frustration. He rushed over to the skull and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. He inhaled deeply to ensure the maximum amount of poison would hit his lungs. He added a nicotine patch to the inside of his left elbow for good measure and flung himself down on the sofa to think.

“Yoohoo.” Mrs Hudson knocked on the door before entering the flat. “I made you boys some rock cakes.” She deposited a plate on the coffee table. Sherlock ignored the offering. He could feel Mrs Hudson eyeing him.

“Oh dear. John isn’t going to be happy about you smoking in the living room. Where’s John by the way?”

“I don’t care. Out.”

“Oh.” She hovered uncertainly next to the coffee table for a moment before walking over to John’s chair and depositing herself in it.

“What’s wrong, Sherlock? Out with it.”

“Molly Hooper has got herself a boyfriend.”

“Really? Oh, how nice. I’m so happy for her. She’s such a nice girl. To be honest, I always wondered how it was possible for someone like her not to have a beau. I mean, she’s got beautiful eyes and a sweet character and she’s terribly clever of course, what with her being a doctor …”

“Yes, all right,” he cut her short. “And all their happy little friends were terribly excited and they lived together happily ever after. What do I care? Thanks to her bumping into that confounded idiot she now refuses to hand me my body parts. That’s what _I_ care about!”

“Oh.”

“Exactly.”

They were both silent. The nicotine did nothing to quell the rage that was still racing through his body.

“Well,” Mrs Hudson said at last. “I must say I can see that must be a huge disappointment to you, Sherlock but actually I’m rather to relieved to hear it. Cleaning that fridge … “

“Jesus Christ!”

He couldn’t very well throw a cushion at his landlady but he was sorely tempted to do so at her remark. He jumped up from the sofa instead. In three strides he was next to the mantelpiece. Mrs Hudson cowered back into the comforting safety of John’s chair but he reached over her, snatched up the packet of cigarettes and retreated to the privacy of his bedroom, throwing the door shut behind him with a mighty bang.

He kicked off his shoes and fell down on his bed. He lit another cigarette and swung himself onto his side to gaze at his chart of the periodic table in the hope its well-conceived orderliness might help him to regain a state of mental stability again. It didn’t. He shot up and delved into his jacket pocket for his phone.

“Anthea.”

“Why are you answering Mycroft’s phone? Hand me over. I want to speak to him.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s currently in a meeting with the Prime Minister and the German and French Chancellors.”

“He could be in a meeting with God and Jesus Christ and all the residing angels for all I care. This is more important. Give me Mycroft.”

He heard Anthea hesitate. 

“All right,” she decided in the end. “But you’d better be certain this is indeed important, Sherlock. On your head be it if Mycroft deems otherwise.”

“For God’s sake, stop procrastinating and hand me my brother, would you?”

“Fine.” She spit the word at him. During their short exchange he had succeeded in making her feel as thoroughly annoyed as he was. His victory brought him no enjoyment.

“Sherlock,” came his sibling’s suave voice after a few minutes. “Please tell me what matter of national importance …”

“I want you to tell Molly Hooper she must give me everything I want,” he interrupted his brother’s beginning of a convoluted sentence.

Mycroft’s confusion on hearing these words wouldn’t have been noticeable to the casual observer.

“Sherlock, for your information. I was in a meeting … “

“Yes, yes, I know. This is more important. Listen, Molly Hooper has fallen in love with some despicable idiot of an airline captain and now she refuses to hand me over my body parts for my experiments. You must step in and order her to give me everything I ask for. How can I do my work if … ”

Now it was Mycroft’s turn to interrupt. “I see,” he said. “Pray, tell me Sherlock why do you think your problems with Dr Hooper would be of interest to me? In fact, now I think about it I’m glad to hear she appears to have finally come to her senses. Ever since we met I’ve considered her to be an extremely capable woman except for this reprehensible infatuation with you. I’m relieved to hear this now belongs to the past. I’ll admit I’ve always turned a blind eye to your appropriating of donor material that was left to science by people more considerate and kind than you could ever be ...” 

Sherlock growled warningly but Mycroft carried on. “Still, the knowledge you were illegally providing yourself with these materials has been heavy on my conscience for a long time now. I’m gratified to learn she has decided to put an end to this abhorrent practice.”

“Mycroft, you listen … “

“No, _you_ listen, Sherlock. I’m not going to help you. If you desire to have access to donor material you can acquire it in the proper way by filling in the requisite forms just like anybody else in this country. I’ll have Anthea send you a stack. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I was … “

Sherlock hit the button to disconnect the call and threw the phone at the wall. Damn his brother, damn Mrs Hudson, damn Molly Hooper, damn that reprehensible sod of an idiot Martin Crieff!

He wished he’d never gone to Africa. If he had stayed in London he would have been able to nip Molly Hooper’s awakening romance in the bud and saved himself a whale of trouble. What good was a fat bank account to him? It wouldn’t provide him with the stuff he was craving for right now.

He lit another cigarette, replaced the nicotine patch with two fresh ones and stretched out on his bed to consider what would be the best way to murder Martin Crieff and which parts he would stow into the fridge and the freezer before doing away with the rest of the body.

***

“Is this better?”

John looked the draft of the letter over with carefully pursed lips. “No,” he decided in the end. “You want to ask them nicely, Sherlock. You can’t demand for them to hand this stuff over.”

“I am asking nicely. It says ‘please’ three times.”

“Those aren’t nice pleases.”

“Oh, for God’s sake! You do it then.”

“No! Why should I? It’s a very good exercise in humility. It will do you a world of good, help you become a better person.”

“You call yourself a friend? What about our friendship, John?”

“Exactly.”

***

The letters to all the Medical Schools in England were sent off after three harrowing days of discussion and rewriting . Sherlock had finally agreed to descend to the level of despicable grovelling John deemed necessary to heighten the chance of success, as he recognised John was better at asking for something than he.

The next few days were spent in a haze of nicotine. John had given up admonishing Sherlock, declaring he fully understood what Sherlock must be going through. Sherlock secretly debated with himself whether or not to give in to another craving that was increasingly manifesting itself with all the stress he was enduring. Instant relief was hidden under the second floorboard from the wall beneath his bed. But he didn’t dare give in. He couldn’t run the risk of John finding out. He didn’t want to endanger their friendship, he fully understood its worth in keeping him sane.

After a week the first refusals started trickling in, the tone of the letters varying from the dull droning of an idiot caught up in red tape to more or less prominently worded outrage. Three schools sent a stack of requisition forms, Sherlock tore those up and threw them in the wastepaper basket on top of the shreds of the ones Anthea had sent him with a curt note. Another week and the stream – never having swollen to a wildly gushing river – dried up.

John laid a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock tried to hold on to the thought he had _that_ at least. 

***

He stood bent over the corpse Molly had pulled out of the freezer at Lestrade’s request. He had to agree with the DI, the burn marks were indeed remarkable. He studied the bottom of the young woman through his magnifier. Whatever had been used to scorch the skin this thoroughly in such thin lines? In the background Molly Hooper and Lestrade kept up a pleasant prattle. It was distracting. He was on the verge of snapping at them to stop it when he heard her happy chime: “All right, Greg. See you later, and give my regards to Sally, will you?” and she strode out of the morgue.

Together he and Molly had not uttered a syllable between them. Behind him Lestrade was hovering, he could almost feel his puzzled gaze travelling up and down his backside. He spun around on his heel in intense annoyance. “What is it?” he growled.

“I don’t know,” Lestrade confessed. “That’s what I’m trying to find out actually.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, stop it, will you? You standing there trying to think is terribly distracting. Do you want me to solve this case for you or not?”

“No,” Lestrade waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the body on the slab. “Please, go ahead. Don’t let me keep you from whatever it is you need to do.”

He hoisted himself up on the other slab and started staring at his hands. Sherlock resumed his scrutiny of the corpse. Fascinating really, a very thin leather whip perhaps, or no, a heated steel coil …

“Hey, now I see,” Lestrade interrupted his scrutiny. “I know what’s wrong. There’s something terribly off-kilter around here. The two of you didn’t exchange a word.”

Sherlock cast him a withering look. “I always aim to keep the amount of words needed to address Molly Hooper to the bare minimum. Glad to hear you noticed I succeeded,” he gritted between his teeth.

Lestrade appeared unperturbed. “Yeah, I know,” he said in a weary voice. “But Molly doesn’t. And now here she just went out while _you’re_ here and before that she didn’t even _look_ at you. Something fishy is going on here.”

Sometimes the venerable DI made the most acute observations. Sherlock had to hand him that.

***

A new case required Sherlock to do some tests in the lab as he didn’t have the necessary equipment at home. John had the day off and decided on the spur of the moment to accompany him. 

On entering the lab Sherlock didn’t acknowledge Molly’s presence and headed straight for the workbench. John piqued him by hovering in the door opening for a moment. He cast a quick glance in Sherlock’s direction and walked over to Molly.

“Hello Molly.”

She looked up and smiled at him. “Oh, hello John. I hadn’t noticed you. How are you? I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Yes, well, we’ve had quite a stint at the clinic. Sarah's on maternity leave and three people called in sick. So I’ve done my extra time, more than my due. Good to be of use after all the time off I had during that smuggling case.”

“Yeah, I read about it on the blog. It must have been so exciting, you made it sound like a kind of extended safari tour but I guess in reality it was a bit different.”

Sherlock snorted from behind the microscope. “I need your help, John,” he called.

Molly waved him away. “You go and help Sherlock,” she said. “I’m going to get some coffee.”

She hopped from her chair and walked out, not asking whether they wanted a coffee as well. 

“See,” Sherlock said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“It’s amazing,” John confirmed. “The change is extraordinary. He really must be something special.”

Sherlock’s snort conveyed the height of derision. “Look down and see for yourself,” he said. “The object of Molly Hooper’s affection is on prominent display all over her desk. The perfect example that one can have what one wants if one’s prepared to lower one’s expectations to the basest possible level.”

John stepped around the desk, eyeing the extensive amount of photo frames in all kinds of shapes and materials. He picked up one of them and started a study of the face that Sherlock knew smiled out at him uncertainly from between the excess of heart-shaped fake fur in the most appalling shade of neon-pink.

“But … but … my God,” John breathed. “Unbelievable.”

“Quite.”

“No Sherlock … I meant, I mean he looks just like you.”

“What did you say?” Sherlock’s voice was a warning indignant growl.

“He looks just like you, Sherlock. He really does. Obviously your hair is all different and the general aspect, but your features, really. The same cheekbones, the same slightly too long nose.”

“Give me that.” Sherlock tugged the frame violently out of John’s hand. He scrutinised the photograph with eyes that burned with loathing. 

“How dare you, John,” he said finally. He was deeply affronted by his friend's words. “How dare you compare me to this small, miserable, laughable impersonation of an air dot captain. Your ridiculous verdict shows quite clearly once more that you see but you don’t observe. Would you have the courtesy to contemplate the whole picture before inflicting your opinion on the world? This … this … despicable creature and I have nothing in common except our acquaintance with Molly Hooper. I’m lithe, tall, dark, handsome and always smartly dressed. This total nonentity on the other hand is none of those.”

Sherlock bristled with indignation. He cast John another foul look before paying attention to the picture of the unfortunate airline captain again. Pure contemptuous hatred coursed through his veins.

“He looks like a horse,” he declared. “Or rather a pony. A little miserable malnourished pony languishing in the sodding rain in the corner of the meadow where it has fled after it was cast out of the herd by all its mean and hateful pony friends.”

His voice was dripping with mock commiseration. His fingers had tightened on the frame, the blood drawn from the tips by the pressure. John eased it out of his hand.

“Well,” he said. “Maybe Molly Hooper is actually a pony girl. I remember Harry being quite close with this girl when she was fourteen. Now what was her name, uhmm, oh yes, Mandy. Apparently Mandy was mad for horses, every wall in her room covered from top to bottom with posters and pictures of handsome black Arabian racehorses, all lovingly retrieved from girlie magazines or bought after scrimping on her pocket money for weeks at a time. Until the moment her parents bought her this small pony. Out went the pictures of the handsome horses and in came … hey, are we done here already?” 

Sherlock had donned his coat and scarf and was already half out of the door. “I’m done with you, John,” he growled. “Comparing me to a race horse, for God’s sake.”

He slammed the door to behind him. The crack in the hallway ceiling widened even further. The whole hospital could come crashing down on John Watson for all he cared. And on Molly Hooper, most definitely on Molly Hooper.

***

Sherlock sat studying the photographs of the freezer locks he had taken during his visits to the morgue. _Once again._ He had already spent hours looking at the bloody things. No matter how he squinted and scrutinised with the aid of his magnifier the damned locks wouldn’t provide him with a clue. She must wipe them with white spirit before she reset them while wearing surgical gloves. It was infuriating. He sprang up, sending his chair crashing to the floor and threw himself down on the sofa in frustration. Mrs Hudson came out of the kitchen where she had been busy doing whatever.

“Must you do that, Sherlock,” she chided him. “It doesn’t do the chair any good and it makes me jump every time …”

“Oh, shut up,” he shouted at her. “I’ll buy you a new chair. Just stop nagging and leave me alone!”

She stood speechless for a moment before pulling herself together.

“I’ll do just that,” she said with thin lips. “Good day, Sherlock.”

He actually threw his cushion after her. Not that it brought him any relief.

***

A quick glance to check whether the coast was clear. Molly was standing in front of the freezer with her back turned to him, fully occupied filling in her boring forms. He wasn’t standing in the range of the CCTV-cameras. With a deft movement he grabbed three fingers from the assortment lying on the slab behind him – most conveniently placed there two minutes ago by an unwitting assistant – and slid them into the pocket of his jacket, his heart hammering away inside his chest. He bent over the corpse in front of him once more, pretending a close perusal as he held the magnifier in front of his eye, but he saw nothing as he was too busy suppressing the giggle of excited glee that kept springing up in his throat.

A part of him stood in the corner of the lab observing him with a cool gaze, shaking his head at the sorry picture of a degraded Sherlock Holmes all excited like a schoolboy that has just successfully nicked a packet of chewing gum at the chemist’s, but he willed that part away. He’d be the first to admit it was horrid to have to stoop to such base methods to get himself a mere three fingers, but desperate times called for desperate measures and let no one state Sherlock Holmes wasn’t one to adapt himself to the circumstances.

After five minutes he decided he had kept up the pretence long enough. It was time to make himself scarce and carry off the swag to Baker Street. He straightened and walked to the door. He was just about to push it open when Molly’s voice halted him.

“Stop it right there,” she bit, her tone sharp and cold. “Hand me what you slipped into your pocket just now.”

He turned around and threw her one of his most withering looks ever. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Molly,” he said, ensuring the disdain oozed from his voice in fat swollen droplets. He fought the hot blush he could feel creeping up from his collarbones and willed it to stay hidden beneath the folds of his scarf. 

The look she cast him could never approach his for sheer menace, not with those huge fawn eyes Bambi himself would have envied her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t trying. She held out her hand to him.

“Three fingers,” she said. ”One index, two middle, Caucasian male in his mid-forties. Give them to me now.”

Utter bewilderment rendered him speechless. How could she possibly have noticed?

“All right. I’ll give you one more minute. If you haven’t handed them over by then I’ll call the police. I’m sure Sally will be delighted at the opportunity to arrest you.”

“For God’s sake, Molly,” he managed, his voice reduced to a pathetic whine. “Have a little compassion, would you? They’re only a couple of fingers.”

“I don’t care if it were only one cubic inch of tissue. They’re not yours and not for you to take. Now hand them over.”

He remained frozen.

“Fine, have it your way then.” She snatched her phone out of the pocket of her lab coat and started dialling.

“Oh, Jesus Christ almighty! You utter vixen from hell!” He drew forth the fingers, threw them onto the floor and stormed out. Little flakes of plaster floated down from the widening crack in the ceiling.

***

Sherlock had travelled all the way to Leeds for his meeting with Dr Elizabeth Vickers BMSc. She had phoned him three days ago, showering him with apologies for not contacting him sooner in answer to his very polite letter, and the resulting email-exchange had allowed him to raise his hopes that Dr Vickers, might turn out to be amenable to his reasonable requests. She had hinted about the rendering of some mutually agreeable service on his part in exchange for whatever he desired. He didn’t greatly look forward to lecturing an auditorium packed with dull students or sharing his findings in a paper drafted up in the simplified language the average medical student would understand, but if that was what it took to get himself what he wanted he would set his teeth and do it.

Leeds wasn’t very convenient – certainly not as neatly just around the corner as Bart’s – but it was no use crying over spilt milk and by now he was so desperate he would have travelled all the way to China for the craved clumps of meat. In fact, he had briefly considered turning there should the lady of Leeds not bear up to her covert promises. He’d understood in China they were a lot less finicky about handing out body parts to whoever asked for them. He strongly opposed their methods for obtaining them, though, so he had immediately rejected the option the moment it had flashed through his brain. No, he would have to try and wind Dr Vickers around his little finger.

He had studied her photograph extensively on the laptop, trying to find out what she might like. In the picture – taken in her office, the photographer having seated her in her white lab coat behind her desk – she stared into the lens with brisk efficiency, her eyes quick and alert behind a pair of severe black frames. Her dark straight hair was cut in a short bob. The throat rising out of the lab coat was clad in a black turtleneck. No chance of finding fluffy heart-shaped photo frames on _her_ desk. Sherlock was already convinced together they would strike up a more cordial acquaintance than he and Molly Hooper had ever enjoyed. 

His prolonged rumination of her figure had persuaded him he should wear black as he first approached this woman. He wanted to impress her as a man that would treat the donor material she’d graciously allow him to handle with all the considerate respect it was due. Yet, he also wanted her to feel attracted to him. The exterior she presented to the world was perhaps a bit too aggressively scientific. A little sexual tension might provide just the requisite extra push to overcome any lingering inhibitions on her part to give him what he wanted. Contrary to Mycroft’s statement – as ever attempting to embarrass his little brother in front of strangers, and just what did that say about Mycroft? – he _did_ actually know quite a lot about sex. 

Sex was what had turned Molly Hooper into such a faithful deliverer of the desired goodies for so many years, until a scrawny airline captain bombarded the supply line by actually giving it to her. Sex was what drove John to spend the little free time Sherlock left him out on dates with boring girlfriends. And he had had a chance to observe the highest-priced dominatrix in the world at work. No one would ever be able to accuse him of a lack of inquisitiveness or unwillingness to apply what he had learned. He didn’t see anything wrong with putting Irene Adler’s lessons into practice – just a little – if it would help him reach his ultimate goal.

So that morning he decided on the battle dress of his most narrowly-cut suit in a discreetly glowing deep-black velvet and an equally tight black shirt in a soft high-thread count cotton with a pattern of M.C. Escher’s interlocking lizards woven into it. His pointed shoes were buffed to a mirror-like shine and he had actually taken five minutes to groom his hair. Mrs Hudson had gaped at him as he met her in the hallway on his way out, heightening his assurance his careful preparations would bear fruit.

He used his time on the train to do plenty of reading and mentally prepare himself for the interview. By way of an experiment he had brought along a small aluminium foil cool bag, he had asked John to buy one for him at Tesco. He’d ask Dr Vickers for an eyeball, an ear, a finger and a kidney and then make an extensive study to learn how they had held up under the transport once he was back at Baker Street again. If the stuff endured this mode of transportation properly he would buy himself a pair of cool boxes and make sure to collect himself a hoard to last him for three months at least during each visit.

In Leeds he took a cab to the hospital and soon situated himself in front of Dr Vickers’ desk. “Please call me Elizabeth,” she said, pumping his hand vigorously. “I don’t believe in those fussy old-fashioned manners. I’m not going to offer you coffee as the stuff dripping out of the machines around here is an insult to humanity. Besides, I'm between lectures at the moment. I thought we’d have a quick look around first and discuss the details over lunch. There’s a decent little Italian place just around the corner. My treat.”

“Fine.” 

“All right. Lab first, shall we?”

She strode off ahead of him on a pair of black high heels. Her well-shaped legs were clad in a pair of point heels stockings. Although she was a very small woman, smaller than Molly Hooper, she moved rather fast. She threw open a door.

“The lab. Not as impressive as the amenities at Bart’s but quite sufficient for our students. Still I understand you haven’t been banned from using their lab facilities yet so I suppose these won’t hold any interest for you.” She shot him a quick smile. He made an effort to return it as best as he could. She walked into the lab and opened a door on the other side of the room. “And here we have the domain that brought you all the way here: my wonderful morgue. Nothing exciting going on right at the moment but I can supply you with everything from extremities to tissue slices, whatever you need.”

“Excellent.”

“Off to lunch then?”

“Fine.”

The decent Italian restaurant couldn’t compare with Angelo’s but this proof of his thesis that civilisation ended several miles shy of the M25 just added to his good mood.

Elizabeth ate heartily of the fare maintaining a spry chatter throughout. He obviously wasn’t supposed to supply any information. Out of her handbag she brought out a small plastic booklet for storing photographs and he was taken on an extended tour throughout the Vickers’ home in five by three point five inch pictures. He honestly didn’t see why she thought this would interest him but kept a polished smile plastered to his face, politely murmuring “oh yes, I see” and “quite” at what he deemed to be the appropriate intervals. Some of the pictures featured a rather bland man, a notary or solicitor who, he presumed, must be Mr Vickers. 

“And this is the bedroom.”

Sherlock gulped as he looked at the picture of a huge bed clad in a riot of red satin in front of a black wall sporting a giant mirror. Next to the bed was a sideboard with glass doors and he instantly decided he didn’t want to have a proper look at its contents. Which was impossible as the picture in the sleeve next to it was a close-up of the objects on display inside. The enormous dark purple latex strap-on struck him in particular. Why in heaven’s name was the woman showing him this? Unless she made a living out of the wielding of these appliances, some of which he didn’t even want to fathom the use of, surely she would wish the knowledge of the assortment in that locker to remain where it was, safely hidden inside the four walls of her bedroom. 

He didn’t go around flashing pictures of _his_ bedroom at people he hardly knew, did he? Even though the most exciting object to be found there was his chart of the periodic table and sadly that hardly ever excited people to the pitch of enthusiasm it fully warranted.

Still, as he had often observed, people were desperate to flaunt their insignificant small lives in front of the incurious, nauseated public. Maybe he was growing old. Or he had been one of the last people on this earth to enjoy the advantage of a strict upbringing. He decided to refrain from commenting and politely waited for her to turn to the next one.

“Well, what do you think,” she asked.

He looked up at her. She was watching him with impatience. He was the one that was flooded with hot embarrassment. 

“About what?” he asked, somehow feeling as stupid as Anderson. He didn’t exactly relish the sensation.

“Do we have a deal?”

She grabbed his hand and drew her fingers along his, her voice had dropped an octave as she addressed him. “You do have beautiful hands, such long fingers, oh ... In fact, I must confess I hadn’t deemed it possible but in reality you’re even more attractive than in your photographs. Is your hair really as soft as it looks, I wonder? And your lips, oh my, Vernon is going to be so pleased … “ She giggled and gloated at him over the rim of her stern glasses.

Indignation flared up hotly inside him. He snatched his hand out of her grasp. 

“I don’t understand what you’re aiming at,” he said in his coldest voice. Inwardly he was groaning. Lunch had been a code word, like dinner. He hadn’t had much of an appetite to begin with but now he felt positively ill. Sick and angry he had been lured all the way out to Leeds to be propositioned into participating in a threesome with a bored couple to add a little spice to their love life. And in return for services rendered with certain parts of his body he would be allowed to cart of whatever he really wanted. Jesus Christ, why did it all have to be so vile? Why did it always have to come down to this? All he wanted was some body parts for his experiments. Experiments which were conducted in a manner that was scientifically far more sound than a lot of the experiments he read about in the medical journals. He wanted to howl with frustration. 

He stood up instead, threw Dr Elizabeth Vickers BMSc a look that combined intense disdain with intense hatred in equal measures, retrieved his coat and scarf from the cloakroom and left.

It was a long journey back to Baker Street.

***

The curtains were drawn against the on-going drizzle that had been lingering for the past three days. Sherlock sat in his chair next to the crackling fire, browsing the website of a wholesale meat supplier. He supposed a butcher wouldn’t feel any qualms about providing him with all the meat he could possibly desire. In fact, the more carcasses he ordered the cheaper they were. He could also ask for them jointed and ready for tests but he had already decided he might gather lots of useful data if he chose to cut them up himself. Maybe if he adjusted the outcome of his experiments with certain factors, using pig tissue would be the answer to his problem. Now he would just have to find himself storage space. Twenty carcasses wouldn’t fit into their freezer. Besides, both John and Mrs Hudson would probably oppose butchering activities in the kitchen.

John was out on a date with the latest squeeze, a buxom accountant called Brenda. He had told Sherlock not to wait up for him so Sherlock had understood John’s object for this evening was to worm his way into Brenda’s bed and actually have himself a bit of a squeeze. Well, rather John than him.

He sighed and applied another nicotine patch. He had given up on the cigarettes because he’d felt quite winded during the chase he and John had had to give last week when their suspect made a dash for it. He missed the comforting drag of the cigarette past his lower lip but it wouldn’t do to have his physical health interfering with The Work as well. Still, having to give up smoking had done nothing to cheer him up. His state of nervous aggravation had induced him to judge Brenda’s qualities in the brain department rather harshly and subsequently wonder aloud why John went to all the bother of wining and dining another utter bore just for the ultimate goal of three minutes of temporary gratification for his libido. John’s reaction to this reasonable question had been to tell Sherlock he was an utter bastard and leave the flat with such force Sherlock would have found it hard to imitate.

His phone chimed with a text alert. He glanced over to where it lay on the armrest.

_Must speak to you. Please call. Mollly._

He resumed reading the conditions of delivery. He ignored the next texts as well; ten in total, in a little under four minutes, their tone increasingly frantic.

His phone rang.

He stood up to make himself a cup of coffee with the new espresso machine he had invested in when he decided to quit smoking.

He silenced the phone when he seated himself into his chair once more. It had been ringing constantly.

He had moved on to browsing the websites of a commercial estate agent to find out whether they were the right party to engage if one wanted to hire a meat locker, when the doorbell started clamouring.

Downstairs he heard Mrs Hudson open the door to 221A and saunter to the front door. 

“Sherlock,” she called. 

He didn’t answer.

The next sounds floating up the staircase were those of Molly Hooper in hysterics throwing herself around Mrs Hudson’s neck.

“Oh Mrs Hudson, thank God you’re in. Is Sherlock here? I need to speak to him.”

“Yes dear, he’s in. Oh my, what’s wrong love? You look like something the cat dragged in. It isn’t … Oh no, please Molly, don’t tell me your gent called it quits, now did he? Oh, my poor dear.” Mrs Hudson’s voice was all commiseration; more commiseration than she had ever shown Sherlock in his despair.

“Hop in with me first to get you all sorted and have a soothing cuppa. You need to dry off or you’ll catch your death. Sherlock isn’t going to take proper care of you. He’s been impossible ever since-”

“I know,” Molly interrupted the stream of sympathy that threatened to flood the hallway. “Thank you ever so much, Mrs Hudson. But I do really need to speak to Sherlock straight away.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Sherlock sank even deeper into his chair. He retied the sash of his robe and rearranged the planes of his face into a study in boredom.

“Sherlock, Molly is here to see you. She’s in a terrible way, you’ve got to be nice to her.”

Sherlock raised his head slowly. “Oh my Mrs Hudson,” he drawled. “That’s just wonderful. But to be frank, I don’t want to see _her_. Of course I can’t object to you two engaging in a friendly chat over a nice cup of tea but I’d prefer not being a witness to the cosy conversation. So if you wouldn’t mind accompanying her downstairs again, I’d be most obliged. I do believe John has still got some custard creams left in the biscuit barrel should you need those to ease the colloquy along. Please feel free to take as many as you like.”

He threw a vague smile in her direction and pretended to re-absorb himself in the contents of the screen.

“Sherlock. I understand you’re terribly angry with me, but please. You’ve got to help.” Molly’s voice was the epitome of misery.

Sherlock let his eyes travel up and down her trembling form. She did indeed look terrible, thoroughly wet with splashes of mud on her shoes and lower part of her trousers. Her hair hung in disarray around her head and she couldn’t have been heaving for breath any harder if she’d just finished the London Marathon. Her mascara was smudged over her tear-streaked face, giving her the aspect of a sad little clown. She fell into John’s chair and attempted to grab his hand. He withdrew it with an air of distaste.

“Go away, Molly,” he said. “I’m not interested in helping you. You’re staining the carpet and soiling John’s chair. He’s rather fond of that piece of furniture so he’s not going to be happy about that.”

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson scolded him. “How can you be so cruel? Be nice to her. Look at the state she’s in.” She walked over to Molly and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Don’t worry love, of course he’s going to help you. I’ll pop the kettle on. Here, why don’t you take off some of those wet things?”

“I don’t see why I’ve got to be nice to her,” Sherlock said sullenly. “She hasn’t exactly been nice to me lately.” 

He glowered at Molly who cast him an obligingly contrite look. She drew a wet handkerchief out of her pocket and used it to increase the damage to her make-up. 

“It’s not about me,” she snivelled, “it’s about Martin. Please Sherlock, help us.”

“Oh I see,” he sneered. “Well, that changes everything, obviously. Nothing is going to stop me exploring all avenues to be of use to your sweet little airdot captain. After all, you getting to know him has brought me nothing but an avalanche of pleasure.”

“Sherlock look, I know I have been nasty to you and I apologise. But please, you’re the only one who can help us... who can help Martin.”

“That’s too bad for him then because I’m not going to do it. Goodbye.”

He looked down at the screen of his laptop again. Molly squirmed and fidgeted in her chair. Behind her Mrs Hudson gasped in indignation. 

“Sherlock,” she admonished him.

He set the laptop aside.

“Mrs Hudson, you haven’t been a witness to the delightful conversations Dr Hooper and I have been engaged in of late. Since you don’t know what the hell is going on here I suggest you kindly refrain from commenting. You may serve Dr Hooper her tea here if you insist but don’t try to make me talk to her. I’m NOT going to help Dr Hooper and that’s final.”

“Oh Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson threw her arms in the air. “What _is_ wrong with you? Molly is one of your oldest friends … “

“I don’t have friends. Except for John maybe. He’s what you might call a friend, I suppose.”

“Please Sherlock,” Molly began again. “Please listen to me. Martin has been arrested.”

“Has he now? I must confess that doesn’t surprise me in the least. After all, I’ve earlier noticed your tendency to choose boyfriends that prefer to walk through life on the wrong side of the law. I’ve understood this to be quite a common occurrence among a certain category of dull women, no doubt wishing to add some spice to their listless little lives. Each to their own, I suppose. Though I must say after having lived through the disaster of your previous boyfriend I had hoped you might have readjusted your taste in men. I’m sad to hear your learning curve must be near to horizontal. Still, what is it to me?”

“Oh please, Sherlock. Would you stop ranting and listen? Martin is innocent. He’s the sweetest man that ever lived. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. You’ve got to help him! The police won’t listen to reason, they’re useless. You’re the only one who can prove he’s innocent. Please?”

“Your assessment of both my capabilities and those of the police force are spot on, Molly. Bravo. Too bad I don’t feel inclined to offer my valuable services to you and your valiant knight of the skies.”

“Sherlock, I know you aren’t like this. I know in reality you want to help people and you are kind … “

“No, I’m not,” he interrupted her. “Your last evaluation of my delightful personality was far more accurate. Now, what was it? Ah yes, I remember. _A self-centred git without an ounce of feeling in his whole delicious body._ Still, I suppose I should be flattered you consider my body to be delicious.”

“Sherlock, please. I didn’t mean that. I was angry … ”

“You meant every word, Molly. But to be honest, I really can’t see the point of this argument we’re engaged in right now. It’s perfectly simple. Over the past months you’ve steadfastly refused to give me what I want. All of a sudden you want something from me and you think a little begging and flashing of tears is going to enlist my help. A friend in need is a friend indeed, isn’t that the expression? Such an accurate one. And people have accused _me_ of being a cynic. You can sit there crying your heart out, I don’t care. As it looks like you’re not inclined to leave regardless of what I say, the only option left to me is to retreat from my own living room in the hopes you’ll have the decency not to follow me and disturb me in the privacy of my bedroom.”

He stood up, slalomed around Mrs Hudson who was standing next to Molly with a mug of tea in her hands, and headed for the kitchen.

“No!” Molly’s anxious shout rang through the air. She shot out of John’s chair and attached herself to his right arm, hanging onto it to keep him from moving. “No, please, you’ve got to listen to me! Martin’s been arrested for cooking Meth in his room. He’s facing prison time for it. He’s innocent, I tell you. He doesn’t even know what Methamphetamine is. You’re the only one who can help him. For years I allowed you to come and take whatever you want. Now I’m asking you for one small thing in return. The accusation is so ridiculous I know you'll be able to prove the police wrong and catch the real criminal in hours. Please Sherlock, do this for me, for the sake of past times.”

Sherlock looked down at her past his nose. “Let go, Molly,” he told her. “My negative answer is, as I said earlier, final. I’m amazed you have the audacity to refer to our past. I wasn’t the only one to get something out of my visits to Bart’s, however much you might like to deny that now. You decided you wanted to end our arrangement and you didn’t care that it left me in dire straits. It’s over, Molly.” He shook himself loose and strode on, not stopping as she crashed down against one of the glass partition doors, sending the pane rattling in the frame.

“Sherlock, please.” She came after him crawling on her hands and knees, clung to his left leg. 

“Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson called out, outrage and disbelief battling for prominence in her voice.

He whipped around.

“I asked you to shut up, Mrs Hudson,” he roared. “You’re not deaf so why don’t you listen?” He swung his gaze to Molly who was still holding onto his leg like a drowning victim to a raft. “And you … Please doesn’t work for me, Molly. It’s not the magic word. My magic word is a noun that’s an arrangement composed of two separate parts. I'm not going to lift a finger to help you unless I can have as many fingers as I want again, and toes, and whatever else I might desire. Now, let go of my leg.” He pulled it out of her grasping arms.

“No Sherlock, I can’t … please … “

He shut the door to his room, muffling the sound of her sobs.

***

In the kitchen a conference was initiated. Seated on the edge of his bed Sherlock heard the sounds of chairs being dragged across the lino, Mrs Hudson’s soothing voice murmuring comforting nonsense at Molly’s gradually diminishing sobs.

“Yes, thank you Mrs Hudson. You’re too kind really.” That was the mug of tea being pushed into Molly’s hands. Next came the sounds of Mrs Hudson conducting a search for the custard creams to the accompaniment of much sighing from Molly. The biscuits were found and he heard the sound of his glass retorts being pushed aside to make space for the tin.

“There, you have yourself a biscuit, there’s a good girl. And now tell me exactly what happened.”

“Martin called me an hour ago from the police station. He … he was packing his things to come and stay with me for a few days as they don’t have any flights scheduled. The plane is grounded for some reason. I didn’t really listen when he explained what was wrong, I was just so happy he was coming. Martin is mad about planes and his face just lights up when he starts talking about them … “

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“… and suddenly the police were standing in his room and saying they were arresting him for cooking Meth.”

“Oh, what is that exactly? I mean I do quite a lot of cooking myself and I wouldn’t mind being arrested by that handsome DI but he’s never threatened to cuff me for my walnut date cakes. In fact he complimented me on them the last time he was here.”

Sherlock snorted. Molly’s voice had an edge of impatience as it came next.

“Methamphetamine is a drug; a stimulant. It’s sold quite a lot at clubs and parties and things. Once you’ve got the necessary equipment it’s really cheap to produce and you can make an enormous profit selling it. It’s highly addictive and justly illegal and Martin would never do such a thing in his life. Besides you need quite a lot of money to set up the lab and he hasn’t got a penny to his name. It’s all so unfair. Next to Martin’s room there’s a big storage space and somebody converted that to a Meth lab. And inside they found Martin’s fingerprints all over the place.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes. But Martin knows nothing about it. And the students that live in his house have said they’ve seen him about quite a lot lately but that’s simply impossible. He’s been doing nothing but flying all around the world the past month. I haven’t seen him in two weeks. Carolyn has really been asking too much of both Martin and Douglas. Of course Martin never complains. He’s happy to be flying, though he does miss me as much as I do him obviously. “

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“Oh dear. Carolyn and Douglas are his colleagues I gather?”

“Yes. The students must be lying. Their testimony is worthless. When they aren’t lying around passed out drunk they’re engaged in blowing or sniffing something recreational that they grow out in the fields at that university of theirs. God, the fumes make me gag half the time I’m visiting there. The police should arrest them instead of Martin. They will only have to check the MJN Air log book but they’re refusing to do that, they told Martin the proof doesn’t lie. Oh my God, he’s going to end up in prison and he’ll never survive. I mean, what if they... you know..." Molly's voice dropped to a tremulous whisper. "Rape him? It was only three weeks ago this man, well he was nothing but a boy really, ended up on my slab. He was an inmate and someone had beaten him to death. You should have seen … Oh my God, oh Martin, oh my darling.” 

She started wailing afresh. Sherlock put his hands against his ears. It didn’t really help to mute the noise.

Molly’s voice was smothered when it came next so Sherlock supposed her face must be resting against Mrs Hudson’s bosom.

“Sherlock is the only one who can help him,” Molly sniffed. “Oh God, why have I been so stupid and been so horrible to him?”

“Now Molly …”

“No, please Mrs Hudson. I have been truly horrid to him. You see, I was so happy. With Martin of course, but also … It was such a relief not to be in love with Sherlock anymore. My life has been nothing but a hell from the moment he waltzed into my lab for the first time right up until I met Martin. It was such a torment every time Sherlock came by and made me do things I knew where against the rules and the law and plain human decency, just to have him smile at me. Or even look at me. I knew exactly what he did to all that donor material I allowed him to haul home. Those wonderful people didn’t leave their bodies to science to have their eyeballs put into the microwave or their feet in the oven or God knows what, but it was impossible to resist him.”

“Oh my.”

Molly sniffled before continuing: “I'm sorry, I know you don't really need to hear all this. I should be off to Fitton but I need Sherlock to come with me and you’re such a kind listener." 

Mrs Hudson made a series of alternately soothing and tutting noises as Molly blew her nose loudly. "You know, the days Sherlock didn’t come were even worse because then I wouldn’t be able to concentrate. I kept imagining him together with other women, men, even though I know he’s simply not interested in, well ... that at all. My God, that one time he kissed me at Christmas after he had been so awful I floated around for weeks. Even though I got all jealous the same evening when he pretended to recognise the body of that fancy … woman. ”

“Oh dear.”

“Then Sherlock went to Africa and he didn't even say goodbye. I only heard about it from Greg. That made me thoroughly realise how much he cared about me. Not one jot. And here I was pining after him.”

Sherlock thought. Had he really not informed Molly he would be off? Well, if she said so he supposed he hadn’t. On the other hand, he didn’t see why he should be held accountable to Molly Hooper for his comings and goings.

“I decided to go on holiday,” Molly went on, “Just to be away from it all and have a good think. The tour operator I was traveling with had chartered MJN Air for the flight and when Martin’s voice greeted us at the beginning of the flight I was sure he was Sherlock. Their voices are very alike, so I spent most of the flight wanting to scream, but when we got out Martin was standing there with his cap under his arm all neat in his uniform and he hardly dared look at me, and …” 

She laughed, sounding almost happy despite her distress. “Oh Mrs Hudson, he’s so handsome. Except he doesn’t realise it because he’s really awfully shy, which is so endearing. Look, I’ve got his photograph here.”

There was the faint rustle of a handbag being opened.

“Oh yes, dear. Oh my, he _is_ handsome. And such a nice smile. You know what, I think he actually looks a bit like Sherlock. He’s all different of course, what with the ginger hair but they’ve got the same cheekbones. He looks like such a nice boy, Molly.”

Sherlock huffed in indignation at his landlady’s words. What was wrong with the eyes of these people? She continued her relentless rattling: “You know, you must bring him over one day. That is-”

“Then Sherlock turned up in my lab again after he came back from Africa,” Molly interrupted her. “Expecting me to allow him to plunder my morgue all over again. He always carried this Harrods shopping bag like I’m nothing but a sales girl in the food halls, handing it over to me with a shopping list and his demand to fill it with the desired supplies. And … and the first time I managed to resist him but at his next visit I almost fell for him again. I was on the brink of giving in to my old feelings and… he … well I don’t know about you, Mrs Hudson, but he’ll always be the most beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’ll be honest with you, Martin is marvellous and I _do_ love him but Sherlock, well, he’s in a league of his own. I know I’m being stupid because he cares sod all about me but I have been so desperately in love with him for such a long time. It's just not that easy to let go of so many years."

Mrs Hudson made a knowing little hum of agreement. "My dear girl, I was young once. And I’ll admit Sherlock is quite striking to look at and far too aware of it.”

“That evening Martin called and I still was so upset I told him what had happened and he didn’t really understand of course. I’d never told him about Sherlock, and he was so concerned and angry on my behalf. I decided then and there I was done with Sherlock forever and I’ve been positively hateful to him ever since just to protect myself. I mean, why does he have to be so bloody gorgeous and such a bloody great git? I thought if I gave in to his demands the whole sorry business of my one-sided non-existent love-affair would start all over again and I didn’t want that. Apart from the fact it’s so horridly wrong, I’ve decided I want Martin. Martin who is less smart and less beautiful but good and sweet and kind to me. I'd even started thinking about what a good daddy he'd be some day...“ She started wailing again. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows in disgust.

Molly continued. "It just felt so good to be able to stand up to him, to have him being the one who wanted something from me for a change. Not to just roll over and give in for a kind word or a pat on the bloody head.”

“Oh Molly, you poor girl.”

“No Mrs Hudson, don’t feel sorry for me. Martin's the one suffering. Because I’ve been so bloody stupid and arrogant with Sherlock he’s never going to want to help me, is he?”

“I don’t really know about that, Molly. To be honest, and please don’t hold this against me, but I quite agree with you that Sherlock has never cared one whit about you and he still doesn’t. That great brain of his is simply too busy whirring away all the time to interest itself in the feelings that run the lives of us ordinary people. But I do know he’s been quite frustrated lately because you’ve refused to give him something he actually does want very much. You should have seen some of the tantrums he’s thrown here over the past few months. Or the spectacular sulking marathons he made us endure. Two weeks ago it got so bad he managed to wear even John’s patience to the bare minimum and you know what a saint of suffering that dear man normally is. And they had another great row just two hours ago.”

“Oh poor John, and poor you. I’m so sorry Mrs Hudson, it’s all my fault!”

“No Molly it isn’t. You’re happy and in love and I’m so glad you finally found yourself someone who is worthy of your love and loving you in return.”

These words initiated a fresh round of bawling. Mrs Hudson pressed on: “I confess I hate the thought of finding all that horrid stuff in their fridge again and I’m quite certain John isn’t going to be too happy about it either, but I think there’s the answer to your problem. If you want him to help you, you’ve got to give him body parts again. I’m sure he’ll be out of that room and in a cab headed to the police station where Martin is held the moment you consent to doing just that.”

Sherlock scoffed at his landlady’s appraisal of his sense of pride. Though he had to admit in this case her judgment was one hundred per cent accurate. He fidgeted on the mattress, willing himself to remain seated.

“No!” Molly set to wailing again. “No Mrs Hudson, I can’t do that! It’s highly unethical. I feel so guilty to all those people whose heads, and feet and livers have ended up in his fridge and his microwave and the oven and God only knows where else. I’m so relieved I can’t be bullied into doling out their precious tissue anymore.”

Sherlock let himself fall back on the mattress with an exasperated sigh and raised his eyes at the ceiling in irritation. 

“Well,” he heard his landlady state next. “Then I’m sorry to say he’s probably not going to assist you, Molly. You know him as well as I do. He can be stubborn as a mule. He’d rather die than pull your poor boyfriend out of the mire if you’re determined not to give in to his wishes. It’s no use sitting here with me in the hope Sherlock is going to come out of that room and prove the police all wrong. Maybe you could try DI Lestrade and see if he’s willing to help you? I’m sure he’ll do everything in his power to keep Martin out of prison.”

‘Oh yes, I’m sure he would. And I know Greg is a good policeman and utterly decent and he would want to assist us in every possible way but the situation looks pretty hopeless and … Oh Mrs Hudson, you talk about handing over those body parts as if it’s the easiest thing in the world but you simply can’t conceive how many hours it cost me every week to cook the books so nobody would notice there was a huge difference between the bodies carted in and the ones that were carried off to the incinerator after use. If I had to do that again I wouldn’t simply have any time left to spend with …”

Sherlock leapt up and strode to his wardrobe. It took him one minute to dress. He dialed Lestrade’s number. Lestrade answered after the fifth ring, his voice groggy and heavy with fatigue.

“Sherlock, yes?”

“Lestrade, I wish to congratulate you.”

Silence hit his ear. When Lestrade’s voice came next it was weary with caution. “Well, thank you Sherlock. May I ask to what I do owe the pleasure and what exactly I’m being congratulated upon.”

“I’ve just discovered a police force in the UK consisting of even bigger idiots than your lot.”

He could hear Lestrade’s audible exhale. “I’m relieved to hear it. Now if you don’t mind, it’s a quarter past nine and I was rather busy trying to reduce the contents of my IN-tray to a level that doesn’t threaten to topple and spread itself all over the floor every time someone enters my office. I sat down with the aim of being in bed by one a.m. at the latest because I’ll have to be down at the Yard again tomorrow morning at eight to be given a dressing down for exceeding the budget. I don’t understand how they do want us to achieve any results on the pittance we’ve been reduced to lately but there it is. So if it’s all the same to you I suggest we end this conversation now and you let me get on with the less argumentative aspects of my work.”

“You’re an idiot, Lestrade. You should delegate the red tape to Donovan and tell your superiors to sack Anderson so he won’t be around to mess up your crime scenes anymore and save you hours of unnecessary bother. You’ll find that will reduce your paperwork by half. Now, I need your assistance on an important matter. It concerns Molly Hooper.”

“Molly? What's happened? Why didn’t you say straightaway she’s the reason you were calling?”

“Because you never listen, Lestrade. Molly’s fine. Her idiot boyfriend has got himself arrested for cooking Meth though.”

“WHAT?" Lestrade sputtered. "No, I can’t believe it. I know she's got rotten taste in men but two criminals in a row? Poor Molly. He doesn't look the type in the photos. But then Moriarty’s disguise was pretty good as well, wasn’t it? Even you were led up the garden path by him.”

Sherlock huffed with exasperation. “Would you mind not raking over the ashes, Lestrade? You’d greatly oblige me if you could have the decency to let sleeping dogs lie. Martin Crieff is nothing but a despicable idiot of the first calibre and the police officers that saw fit to arrest him must be even worse.”

“John is out, I guess?”

“Yes, why?”

“Never mind. Look Sherlock, what do you want me to do? Like I said, I love chatting with you because of your charming personality and I’ve got nothing better to do anyway …”

“There’s no need to get all cynical on me, Lestrade. I’d be the last person on earth to engage anyone in unnecessary chitchat. I want you to call your colleagues over at Fitton and tell them they can expect me in a few hours and they’d do well to assist me in every possible way.”

“Oh, all right, I see. Well, I could do that. But just because it's for Molly, mind. Poor girl.”

“I wish everybody would stop calling her that. She’s perfectly able to fend for herself. She can be quite savage I assure you.” With that he hung up. 

After having checked the train departure times he opened the door of his bedroom and marched towards his landlady. He whisked her out of her chair in order to hug her and ended with a kiss on each cheek. 

“Sherlock, what …”

“You, Mrs Hudson, simply are the best landlady of all the landladies walking this earth.” He deposited her in her chair again and dashed over to the stack of desk trays on top of the table and delved into it to find the memory stick with the computer program he had engineered for Molly. As an afterthought he fished out one of Lestrade’s ID-cards as well and stuck it into the pocket of his jacket.

“And you,” he continued pivoting towards Molly, “have managed to sadly disappoint me. I know, beneath that blustering innocuous exterior you insist on presenting to the world, a rather smart and capable woman resides. Yet you needed Mrs Hudson to point out the essentials of your situation to you. Still, I’m relieved to hear you finally understood what will induce me to pull your captain courageous out of the prickly situation he managed to wriggle himself into.”

He held out the memory stick to her. She accepted it with a dazed look. “Here’s the answer to your logistical problems. It’s been patiently waiting for you all the time you insisted on spinning your tale of your passionate romance to the uninterested public. Now let’s go. With luck we’ll just manage to catch the nine forty five to Long Buckby. Should we miss that one, the ten o’clock train will be our last option but that takes an hour longer. If you had acted sensibly right from the start you would have spared us a lot of unnecessary delay.” 

Mrs Hudson was left standing open-mouthed while he donned his coat and scarf. He ran down the seventeen steps next to hail a cab, holding the door open for Molly as she descended from the front door, hurrying after him.

***

At Euston Station Sherlock dragged Molly through the crowds to the departure platform, shoving her aboard the train and jumping aboard after her ten seconds before the departure whistle was blown. Molly collapsed into her seat coughing and gasping for breath with a hand stuck to her side. 

“God,” she wheezed. “How the hell does John keep up with you? He must be in the pink of health.”

“Of course he is,” Sherlock scoffed. “There’s no reason why he shouldn’t be. A little exercise every now and then has never done anyone any harm.”

“I don’t know about a little … “

“Oh, do stop it Molly. You can sympathise with him to your heart’s content the next time you see him. Now, let’s spend our time in a profitable manner, shall we?” He pulled his Moleskine notebook and a pen out of his pocket and handed them to her. “Draw me a map of Martin’s room and the attic, would you? Please endeavour to be as accurate as possible. I know you’ll probably miss half of the really important clues but I shan’t hold you responsible for that.”

She accepted the utensils with a meek expression on her face.

“Sherlock,” she began, “I’d really like … “ 

“Yes, yes, fine. Now do as I told you,” he said, shooing his hand at her to stop her from becoming embarrassingly emotional. 

Having set Molly to work he whipped his phone out of his pocket to familiarise himself with the latest information on Meth cooking. He had used it once and not been overly enthusiastic about the high it had produced. After he had crashed back to earth again he had decided to stick to cocaine for good. It was a lot cleaner, easier to dose and ensured a more satisfactory temporary release from whatever was bothering him at the time. 

Cooking the stuff must be a nasty business. He surmised a lot of would-be Meth millionaires ended up either in A&E or biting the dust every year. The last activity probably meant they were still transgressing severely against several environmental laws even while pushing up daisies, as the fumes that would have killed them were highly toxic.

The more he read the more he became convinced the idea of Martin Crieff being able to pull off an operation of this kind was ridiculous in the extreme. Unless he had engaged the services of a certain consulting criminal, the concept of a single person in an attic room on a residential estate managing to produce the quantities needed to earn back the original investment was highly unlikely. Somebody had tried very hard to play a dirty trick on Molly’s knight of the sky. Sherlock thought it rather improbable anyone would want to put a guileless dope like Martin Crieff in a tight spot though he had to admit he himself had wished to do so rather frequently the past few months. 

Still, it might be improbable but he couldn’t state yet it was impossible.

“Does Martin have enemies?” 

Molly quit her drawing and blinked at him. “No,” she said. “It’s obvious you don’t know him, Sherlock. The idea of Martin having enemies is simply preposterous. Toby doesn’t like him but that’s because Martin is basically a dog-lover and cats sense that on you no matter how hard you try to conceal the fact.” Sherlock put up an effort not to let his lip curl with utter disdain at this information. 

“So it must have something to do with you.”

“Me, why?” Molly was amazed until the implications of his statement hit her.

“Oh no,” she whispered in horror. "You don't think – surely not Jim?"

He nodded.

“We can’t be sure until I’ve actually seen the evidence and maybe spoken to the people that have testified against him. I’ll consider it as my working thesis for now until we find the facts to disprove it. Whatever did you and Jim get up to in those three weeks you were together?” 

“Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Nothing special that is. We had a Thai take away together a few times, watched a DVD, things like that, you know? He said he liked _Titanic_ as much as I did.” 

Molly’s words proved once more that his favourite statement hit the nail on the head every time. Because Sherlock would have thought it improbable but suddenly found it wasn’t at all impossible to understand Jim Moriarty. Only now did he really appreciate the desperate methods Jim must have resorted to in order to be able to get at him. Sherlock almost wanted to applaud him for his fortitude. He honestly didn’t want to contemplate what _he_ would have wanted to do to Molly Hooper if she had forced _him_ to watch that awful nonsense for more than three hours. Sherlock supposed it wouldn’t have boded very well for her. Not after John’s confession that even he had decided to break it off with a previous girlfriend after being dragged to the theatre to suffer in silence together with all the other blokes sitting next to women sniffing away in their handkerchiefs.

***

At Long Buckby station the only cabbie waiting for passengers insisted he’d never even heard of Fitton. Molly looked ready to burst into tears any minute while Sherlock and the taxi driver locked themselves in a heated argument on the whereabouts of Martin Crieff’s hometown. Sherlock ended the discussion by offering the cabbie fifty pounds in exchange for a place behind the steering wheel with the cabbie as a passenger in the back of his own car.

“I suppose you can drive at least,” the cabbie grumbled.

Sherlock flashed Lestrade’s ID-card at him. “Look, I’m a police officer. I’m supposed to uphold the law, not trespass against it.”

Once seated behind the wheel Sherlock started an extensive study of the various knobs and signals in front of him. He had never bothered with learning to drive but he guessed the concept shouldn’t hold too many difficulties for him if half of humanity was able to pull it off. 

“Seat belts fastened?” he asked.

Behind him the cabbie grumbled some more and reached over his shoulder to grasp the belt with much huffing and puffing.

As he rounded the first corner he made a slight mistake which would have sent him and Molly skidding through the front window if they hadn’t worn their belts, but he managed to control the car fairly well after that. In about five minutes, after the rush of exhilaration of doing something new had worn off, he became quite bored with the whole thing, inwardly deciding once more people were idiots really, what with the jabbering about freedom and the fun of controlling a powerful machine in that way they did whenever the subject of cars was raised by someone.

He heaved a sigh of relief when he smashed to a stop against the curb in front of the Fitton police station, ignoring the equally loud sighs of Molly and the driver. The cabbie managed to jump out of the vehicle despite his considerable bulk and grabbed the notes out of Sherlock’s hand with a violently twisted face.

“No wonder crime statistics have reached an all-time high,” he snarled. 

Sherlock didn’t deign to grace the man with an answer. “Come on, Molly,” he said instead and entered the premises to sow terror in the heart of the Fitton police force.

***

“Good evening,” Sherlock greeted the sergeant who manned the reception desk. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. DI Lestrade should have phoned earlier this evening to inform you of my arrival. I wish to speak to Martin Crieff, who you’re currently holding in a detention cell on the erroneous assumption he's the big brains behind a Meth cooking operation. If you had actually used the one brain cell the combined force of this station must, statistically speaking, have been allotted with, you would have seen your accusation is as likely to hold up in court as the idea the earth is actually wobbling on the back of a giant turtle. But then I suppose you were too busy discussing the latest football-results, celebrity divorce or the most recent broadcast of Top Gear when you made the arrest.”

Next to him Molly whimpered in anguish. The sergeant glowered at him.

“We were warned about you, yes,” he said. “My superintendent wants to speak to you first.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine. Where can I find him?”

“Her.”

“All right,” he spat. “Her.”

They were shown into a small office. Five minutes later a woman in her late thirties barged in. She shrugged out of her Burberry coat to reveal a smart evening ensemble in turquoise shot silk.

“Me and my husband were celebrating our tenth wedding anniversary,” she snapped at Sherlock before offering him her hand. “I don’t see why this couldn’t have waited until tomorrow morning. I understand you’ve come to ridicule my people and already made a headway doing so. I want you to understand I won’t accept one remark, however slight, said against either them or their methods.”

“Oh my,” he cooed. “You’re asking me to promise the impossible. But, tell you what, you give me free access to all your evidence and witnesses and the police officers I want to interview and don’t comment on whatever I do or say, and I won’t inform your Chief Superintendent of the liberties you’ve taken in filling in your declaration forms.”

“What, how?” the woman made a failed attempt at being indignant. Molly sniggered.

“Now I would really like to speak to Martin Crieff. I’ve already wasted ten minutes inside this building.”

"I’ll have him brought to the interview room straight away,” the superintendent said. She had recovered a bit but was still rather pale around the nose.

“I’m relieved to find you really are horrid to everyone, Sherlock,” Molly whispered while they were walking to the interview room. “Now I understand it has nothing to do with me. How did you know that, by the way?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders. “Perfectly obvious. Proud mother of four, happily married to the local GP, photograph of the family on prominent display on the wall, the latest Burberry coat, a new Nicole Farhi evening suit, a Hermes Victoria bag and Christian Louboutin shoes that became available only last week. Even on their income to be able to buy the whole lot all in one go, just for their anniversary, is highly unlikely. She confessed herself she was wearing it while out with her own husband so they weren’t presents from a lover.” 

He paused. “And I’ve never been horrid to you, Molly. At least not on purpose. I wasn’t being horrid just now, merely efficient. Why do people stubbornly fail to realise there’s a difference? It’s the one point John and I will never see eye to eye upon.”

“But that’s because people are idiots,” Molly prompted. “And I didn’t know you went in for the fashion magazines, Sherlock.”

“You’d better not start getting cheeky on me, Dr Hooper. I may still turn and walk out and leave you and your airline sweetheart stuck in the mire.”

“No, you won’t. You need me as much as I need you. We’re stuck in the same boat.”

Sherlock shivered. “I’d prefer you not to use that expression. Not with the recent information you’ve given me.” 

He addressed the constable that accompanied them. “Tell me, how were you alerted to this spectacular crime taking place in your district?”

“We got a tip from an anonymous caller. Those calls aren’t traced if you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t. I know who the caller was. I’m not stupid, unlike your lot.”

***

After waiting in the interview room for two minutes the door was thrown open and a slight figure Sherlock recognised to be Martin Crieff was shoved inside. He stumbled and crashed against the table.

“I’m so sorry,” he began but Molly was up and moving to embrace him before he could continue. 

“Oh Martin,” she cried. She turned her head to glare furiously at the constable who was just closing the door. “And you’re a horrible man,” she snarled, “How dare you treat people that way?” She looked back to Martin and wrapped her arms tighter around his body. “Poor darling, you aren’t hurt, are you?”

Sherlock sighed. He expected he would spent the next quarter of an hour keeping his temper in check and one look at the tender pair confirmed all fears that he was going to fail in a rather spectacular manner. Still, he had to make an effort. He studied the slight, dishevelled figure of the unfortunate airline captain with mild interest. Out of his uniform, shivering in a pair of threadbare jeans and a thin white T-shirt that sported a graphic of the Boeing 747 he was rather a pitiful sight. Sherlock made an earnest endeavour but honestly couldn’t find the slightest resemblance to himself.

Martin held on to Molly’s shoulders like a lifeline. She initiated a long wet kiss. Sherlock wriggled his nose in disgust. Martin reciprocated with enthusiasm at first before letting go of her, his face a study in embarrassed amazement. “Molly, what are you doing here? Why did you come? I mean I’m glad that you came but I can’t see … you don’t want a criminal as your boyfriend, do you?”

Sherlock couldn’t refrain from snorting but Martin ploughed on, all caught up in his emotions: “No, of course you don’t and that’s why you came. You came to say we’re done. You came rather than tell me over the phone or sending me a text because you’re good and kind and decent … “

He would have prattled on if Molly hadn’t interrupted him, drawing his head down to her bosom. 

“Martin, stop it, please. I wouldn’t be all those things if I deserted you now. Of course I came as fast as I could. I'm just so sorry it took me so long. Oh my love, have they been horrid to you all along?”

“No, yes, I don’t know. They’re all angry because Douglas and Arthur and Carolyn came to see me. Apart from the pretty constable that agreed to a date with Douglas, apparently. You’ve just missed them. Arthur will be so disappointed.”

“I hope Carolyn gave them a piece of her mind.”

Martin winced. “She did, and that was what upset them so much. It ended with them threatening to arrest her for insulting the police while on duty. Arthur became frantic when they said they would toss his mother into prison. It all went rather downhill after that, I’m afraid. Everyone was shouting and everything was so unnerving.” Martin shuddered. “It only ended when Douglas was finally able to loosen himself for one minute from his latest conquest and talk some sense into Carolyn.”

“Oh Martin.”

“The constable that brought me back to my holding cell said they'd make me spend at least twenty years in prison just to make up for the emotional damage inflicted on them. I know Carolyn's a bit terrifying and then Arthur was doing that thing where he makes faces because he's angry, but if Douglas and I can bear it the police should be able to stand it as well. Being a copper can’t be a very stressful job if they get all unbalanced this easily.”

“That’s because they’re all idiots,” Sherlock said. He stood up and held out his hand to Martin. “Sherlock Holmes, how do you do? I’m here to ensure you’ll be freed of this reprehensible lot at the earliest possible moment.”

Martin looked up at him with his mouth open. It was obvious he hadn’t even noticed Sherlock was in the room with them before. He didn’t accept Sherlock’s hand but addressed Molly instead.

“That’s … that’s him. I mean that’s the man you told me about on the phone. The man who assaulted you. What’s he doing here? Why did you bring him along? I don’t understand.” His voice had risen to a whine in its attempt at conveying indignant outrage. He shut his mouth abruptly.

Molly grabbed his hand and pressed a kiss on the back. “Listen Martin, darling, you don’t have to understand, not now. I’ll explain later. Just do as I say, as Sherlock says. He’s here to prove them all wrong and he’s going to do it.”

Sherlock smiled at her. “Quite,” he murmured, “Thank you, Molly.”

Martin slowly swivelled his head, his gaze travelling from Sherlock to Molly and back again.

“I don’t understand,” he said again. He drew himself up and addressed Molly in an officious tone: “Please do me the honour of explaining why you brought the man who harassed you while you were at work? What does he have to do with either you or me?”

Molly blushed deeply and shot Sherlock an apologetic look. She cleared her throat. “Uhm, look Martin, I’d rather you’d forget that conversation. I wasn’t doing Sherlock proper justice then. I was confused and … and not able to … let’s just forget it okay? Sherlock is an old acquaintance of mine and the one man that can actually help us, darling. So just listen to him and answer his questions and ignore when he’s rude to you and he’ll have you out of this horrid place in no time. Trust me.”

Sherlock drew up the corners of his lips in an attempt at an encouraging smile in Martin’s direction. Martin drew back and blinked rapidly. He squeezed Molly’s hand a little harder.

“Uhm, okay,” he managed. “If you say so, Molly.” He fidgeted a bit and withdrew his hand from Molly’s grasp at last to hold it out to Sherlock. 

“Hello, I’m Martin Crieff. Pleased to meet you. Not really, actually, but that’s what once supposed to say if one wants to be polite, isn’t it?”

“Is he always like this,” Sherlock asked Molly. “I wonder how you can stand it.” He paid no attention to the angered glare those words earned him.

Instead he shook the hand Martin kept holding out to him. “I’m going to ask you some questions. Sit down and try to relax, would you? You’re not a squirrel so try to squirm a little less. Your constant fidgeting grates on my nerves rather badly.” 

He made himself a promise he would never fly with MJN Air. Any flight with Martin Crieff handling the steering equipment in the cockpit must feel like one massive bout of turbulence to the passengers, even in the clearest weather.

“All right, fine, great, thanks.” Martin sat down at last and squinted up at Sherlock. Molly sat down beside him and started patting his hand once more. 

“Do you mix a lot with the agricultural students,” Sherlock dove straight in.

“How do you … “ Martin began. Molly squeezed his hand and smiled encouragingly. “No, not really,” he continued. “They’re all much younger than I am. Besides none of them is interested in flying. We greet each other when we meet in the kitchen or on the stairs but that’s about it. I’m the only one in the attic so …” He drifted off.

“So there’s no reason why one of them would like to do you a disservice? Actually set up the lab along with a friend studying chemistry and mess around a bit with the evidence to put the blame on you?”

“No!” Martin looked horrified at the thought. “No, they’re a friendly lot, all of them. Besides why would anybody want to do that to anyone else?” He appeared to be genuinely puzzled.

Sherlock sighed. He supposed he couldn’t blame Martin for being a guileless ignorant but he could certainly blame the police for their eternal stupidity.

“Did she make you watch _Titanic_?” he asked. He ignored Molly’s indignant start at the question.

Martin cast her a quick glance before replying: “Um … yes, she did, actually. I fell asleep halfway through, stupid me. I felt so awful because Molly likes that particular film so much. I couldn’t really see the point of it but that’s because I’m not that interested in boats whatever their size. It's the lack of wings. I stayed awake for the other one with the same actor though, but that’s because that one is about this boy pretending to be an airline pilot.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “I definitely understand that must have struck a note.”

He stood up. “It’s Moriarty, I’m sure of it now,” he announced. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to catch the real culprits because he will want to make use of them again in the future. Still, it shouldn’t be difficult to prove your innocence. He’s not interested in you actually spending time in prison so he will have made some effort to create a convincing crime scene but not overly much. He just wanted to play around with you a little to have some fun time and revenge himself upon Molly.”

Now it was Molly’s turn to stare open-mouthed at him as well. “Whatever are you talking about?” she asked.

“What's Moriarty?” Martin squeaked.

“ _Titanic_ , Molly," Sherlock said. "I’ll be the last one to feel sorry for Moriarty but the poor man must simply have been bored out of his skull. He had to pretend he was interested in the drivel you forced him to watch. You made him suffer for three hours. I’ll bet you he’s never had to endure anything even remotely more mentally exhausting before.” He sniffed. “Thank you, Martin. That will be all. I’ll instruct them to let you wait together in here while I go and give their so-called evidence a lookover. Molly can tell you all about Moriarty. She’s spent more time hanging around him than I did. I confess I can’t say I found his personality very endearing but Molly begged to differ for some unfathomable reason.”

He left the bewildered atmosphere that had sprung up in the room at his words, heaving a sigh of relief as he turned to the constable that was on guard outside.

“Your superintendent won’t object to them waiting in this room, I trust?” he said. The man shook his head. 

Sherlock glanced at his watch. “Is there a takeaway or anything where they sell a decent cup of coffee still open somewhere?” he asked. “I suppose the stuff that is dispensed by the machines over here is a slap in the face with a wet towel.”

The man nodded and scratched his head. “Yes it is and yes there is. It’s on the other side of Fitton though.”

Sherlock handed the man some notes. “See to it that they get some, would you? And a couple of buns or something. Should I ask your colleague at the reception desk about seeing the evidence?”

The man bobbed his head up and down once more. He deliberately let his eyes travel over Sherlock’s figure. “You his half-brother or something?” he asked. 

Sherlock shot him a withering look. “Just do it,” he snapped.

At the reception desk he was told the evidence was laid out and ready for his inspection.

“Don’t see why you bother,” the sergeant showing him into the room told him. “Your little brother doesn’t have a leg to stand on. His fingerprints are all over the place.” He chuckled derisively. “But of course a big city bloke like you is going to pan out we’re nothing but a couple of yokels over here. Well, I say good luck with it and don’t expect me to sympathise when you can’t find anything. We’re not stupid, you know.”

“I completely agree with you. That would be a too kind description of your intellectual faculties and those of your equally mentally disabled colleagues,” Sherlock scoffed as he closed the door in the man’s face. He almost felt pity for the Fitton general public; people dependent for their safety upon a police force exclusively drawn of some of the biggest idiots available on the British Isles. He decided not to pursue the matter, it was too emotionally aggravating. 

He drew a pair of latex gloves out of his jacket pocket instead and snapped them on. He eyed the collection of glass retorts and lab equipment the police had dragged over to the station. It all looked professional enough. But then money was no object to Moriarty. He dusted the fingerprints on several retorts and copied them for perusal under the microscope. He sniffed the retorts next and swiped some of them to collect some of the residue. He wrapped each of the samples carefully in clingfilm he took from a roll lying amid the jumble. 

“I’d like to make use of some laboratory services. Do you have any around here,” he asked back at the reception desk. He was shown into yet another room. 

Sherlock prepared the fingerprints he had copied and studied them under the microscope. They had been extremely careful, print after print proved itself to be identical to the ones the police had taken when they had put Martin into custody. Sherlock had to scrutinise about a hundred prints before the first mistake cropped up. Someone had not been very precise in cutting and applying the set of Martin’s fake fingerprints to his or her fingertips. The pattern of the print changed abruptly on the other half of a zigzag line. Sherlock felt like hugging himself in triumph. His success encouraged him to look for more mistakes and ten minutes later he had come up with seven other prints that were clearly not Martin’s. He deemed this to be proof enough. 

He examined next the various sorts of residue he had collected, and found them indeed to be the ingredients necessary to produce Meth. That was only to be expected he supposed, Moriarty knew as well as he did the police were stupid, but not _that_ stupid.

He went over to monitor the situation in the interview room and found Molly and Martin holding hands while sipping their coffee. They both looked a bit abashed at his entrance. Sherlock supposed Molly had been doing some explaining. He decided to keep it brief.

“I’ve already got conclusive proof someone has been borrowing your fingerprints, Martin,” he briefed them. “That’s enough to convince them to let you go. Still, I’d like to sniff around a bit at the so-called crime scene. Would you mind waiting here a little longer?” 

“Oh Sherlock, I knew you would do it.” Molly was around his neck and peppering his cheek with kisses barely a moment later. She let go abruptly and grabbed Martin’s hands. “You see darling, I told you he is the best.”

“Yes,” Martin didn’t look at all happy at the announcement of his imminent release. If he had been capable of glaring fiendishly, Sherlock would have sworn that that was the look Martin was deliberately trying to cast at him. 

He recognised the particular set of the eyes from the elaborate lookovers some of John’s girlfriends had given him over the years. To Sherlock it proved once more that his initial assessment of Martin Crieff, _reprehensible idiot_ , was totally right. But then, he always was.

“It’s nothing,” he told Molly. “And I presume both Martin and I would prefer for you to throw yourself enthusiastically around _his_ neck.”

Molly blushed and turned to Martin. “It’s- I’m just so happy for you, my love. Just a few more hours and we’ll be able to forget this ever happened.” She did indeed throw herself around Martin’s neck to appease him, smothering him with kisses. He squirmed under the lavish attention that was showered upon him, his face unable to decide upon either extreme gratification or extreme uneasiness.

“We’ll wait here,” Molly assured him. “Take all the time you need, Sherlock.”

“Fine. I’ll leave you happy lovebirds alone then. I won’t be long.”

***

It turned out Martin’s house was only three streets away. Sherlock decided to walk there. They sent a constable with him to watch his doings. The moment she’d arrived in the reception desk area he’d understood she wouldn’t bother him as she was too busy flirting by text message with the only real pilot MJN Air employed. All the better, she wouldn’t try to interfere while he eliminated their so-called evidence. 

The building proved itself to be a ramshackle affair that could do with some badly needed repairs. No one answered when they rang the bell so Sherlock picked the lock. The pretty constable didn’t comment but followed him as he entered the premises. The place appeared to be empty. The telly was blaring in the communal living room and a pair of sleepy dogs, fed on a diet of crisps and beer by the look of them, raised their snouts from their front paws in brief acknowledgement of their visitors, one of them adding to the excitement by thumping its tail against the bare floorboards a few times. 

The staircase to the attic was taped off. Above their heads they could hear the stumbling of several pairs of feet. Heavy objects were being dragged over the floor and somebody swore when something crashed down with a heavy thud. Upstairs they found several people busily examining the attic. The room which Sherlock assumed must be Martin’s had been turned into a riot of overturned furniture, books and empty DVD- and CD boxes scattered amidst the general upheaval. Martin’s possessions had been examined with such enthusiasm even some of his model aeroplanes had been damaged by the shock wave of three eager agricultural students on an extensive search for pills. Sherlock observed them with a raised eyebrow. The tail fin of a Spitfire dangled sadly from a thin nylon thread, a dark smudge against a ceiling that had been painted a faint sky blue with some white clouds dabbed on for extra effect. After a couple of minutes one of the students noticed him lingering in the doorway. The boy reddened and alerted the others.

“Found anything?” Sherlock asked. The two boys and one girl cringed at the question. “No,” one of them squeaked after a minute. 

“Thought so,” Sherlock said. “Thank you for helping. Off you go.”

“Hey,” the constable said, her eyes still on the screen of her phone. “You can’t do that, they shouldn’t be here. They’re tampering with the evidence.”

“What evidence?” Sherlock scoffed. “I suggest you go and sit down somewhere and continue your riveting conversation by text while you let me do the work around here.”

She didn’t object any further but plunked herself down on a chair. She certainly was more amenable than Donovan, a character trait Sherlock deemed most refreshing.

He walked over to the room where the lab had been installed and perambulated the confined space with slow steps. The whole set-up looked highly professional. All the necessary equipment had been carefully installed and Sherlock found some more of the ingredients in glass retorts. He eyed the extraction system, then reached up and dismantled it. Like he had suspected, it was a fake and completely empty inside.

“Come and have a look,” he called.

The constable shuffled over towards him, eyes still at her mobile. At Sherlock’s instigation she lifted them for a moment. That look of horror at the discovery that they were wrong and he was right. That was what made The Work so satisfying.

***

“Had any of your people actually read up on Meth cooking before deciding to arrest someone who’s obviously unaware of the existence of the drug?” Sherlock asked the superintendent.

Her mouth was a thin line. Her eyes were the body parts speaking volumes.

“I can imagine it must be horribly boring working here in this sleepy backwater,” he continued. “I’m afraid this stupid lark is going to ensure you’ll have to remain here for the rest of your career. Reduced to your proper salary and expenses, I’ve just made certain someone will be observing you closely. Here!” He showed her the text message he’d sent to Anthea on his way back to the station. The superintendent blanched. She had a proper sense of pride though, he had to give her that. No sound of protest or pleading fell from her lips.

“Now I’d like you to send someone to apologise to Martin Crieff and Dr Molly Hooper for the inconvenience your people have caused them. Dr Hooper is an old friend of mine and having had to watch her utter emotional wretchedness at her boyfriend’s arrest has been a most excruciating experience, I assure you.”

The woman nodded and raised herself out of her chair.

“I’m sincerely sorry, Mr Holmes,” she said. “I’ll go and tell them myself.”

Sherlock waited outside while the superintendent was mumbling her apologies to Martin and Molly. At her departure from the room he asked her for a cab. “The cabbies around here appear to be as moronic as all the other people in various professions in these parts. I do hope you’ll be able to find one that knows the route from Fitton to London.”

With this remark he walked in to find Martin in tears with Molly busily comforting him.

“What is it now,” he asked. 

“Sherlock, please. Of course Martin is crying. He’s crying with relief and happiness because he doesn’t have to go to prison.”

“He knew that from the start, didn’t he? He’s innocent.”

“Oh Sherlock. How is it possible someone so smart can be so stupid?” With these words she started crying herself.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Martin did his best to quell the sniffing, actually managing to throw in a few ‘thank you’s. He appeared to be less hostile now he'd been acquitted. Molly had evidently been talking some sense into him and of course he was an extremely docile person. Sherlock considered Molly to be a very lucky woman in finding a boyfriend with such an obliging nature even she would be able to lord it over him. Although, he recalled with a shiver some of the scenes she had put him through in the past few months and swore to himself he would never forget that beneath the deceptively soft exterior a demon lay in waiting, ready to slash about and breath fire the moment someone didn’t comply with her wishes.

“Yes, all right, fine,” Sherlock waved at him impatiently. “No reason to thank me. You’d better thank your predecessor.”

“What?” Martin squeaked.

Molly drew a deep breath and patted his hand.

“I’ll explain that as well, Martin,” she said, wiping at her eyes. “I’m afraid there’s more to me than I would like there to be. All thanks to a certain somebody by the way.”

“Isn’t that the problem we all have to live with?” Sherlock asked. He thought for a moment, then extended his hand to Molly. “You’d better give me that memory stick again,” he said. “If Moriarty is still interested in you we don’t want to hand him the toys on a plate should he decide he wants to come out again and start another game. I’ll have to do some further engineering.” 

Molly searched around in her bag for the stick. “Here. I’d greatly appreciate you make sure I’ll never have to see that horrid creep again.”

“I’ll give it my utmost,” he promised. “Shall we go? I can’t bear the general stupidity of this place much longer.”

“Oh, but I’ll have to tell Carolyn and Arthur and Douglas first,” Martin protested.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sherlock informed him. “The constable accompanying me was constantly text messaging with your co-pilot. I’m sure she kept him updated of the fact their evidence was sadly lacking in substance.”

To his astonishment Martin drew himself up at this statement. 

“Please understand that Douglas is not my co-pilot,” he declared in an officious tone. “I’m the captain and Douglas is the first officer. There’s a great difference in the responsibility we each bear. It really is most inappropriate to consider our tasks even remotely alike.”

Sherlock considered the information. “Aye, aye, sir,” he said, clacking his heels sharply together. Martin relaxed immediately. 

“Thank you for understanding,” he said. “So many people don’t and it really isn’t that difficult now, is it? Even Arthur understands I’m skipper.”

Sherlock pivoted on his heel in disgust. The boy must be even more of an idiot than he had surmised if he hadn’t understood Sherlock had been ridiculing him. He honestly didn’t understand why Molly Hooper was attracted to him. He’d always considered her to be a smart girl. Still, what was it to him as long as MJN Air’s captain wasn’t standing between him and his supply of fresh body parts anymore?

“Thank you, Jim,” he whispered with delight. The world’s most elusive criminal mastermind had done him a great service. And Sherlock hadn’t even consulted him. He really ought to write him an IOU.

***

The journey back to London took them a little over two hours. Molly and Martin were lying in the backseat holding onto each other, Martin snoring softly in Molly’s lap while she hung in the belt cradling his head in her arms. After they had dropped them off at Molly’s flat Sherlock directed the cabbie to Baker Street. The taxi slid to a halt in front of the door of 221B just as John came walking up from the direction of Baker Street station.

“John,” Sherlock called. He paid the cabbie telling him he could keep the change and checked his watch. “Everything went according to plan considering your time of return?”

John confirmed his words with a satisfied nod. “You look decidedly happy all of a sudden,” he said. “Don’t tell me Molly changed her mind and you can shop till you drop once more?”

“As a matter of fact she did,” Sherlock informed him, unable to keep a gratified grin from his face at the sight of John’s mouth falling open in astonishment. “Even better, Moriarty was the one to push her in the right direction. I’m decidedly grateful to him. Thanks to him, Molly’s stern ship of determination was blown rather of course and hit an iceberg. Lucky for her I was there to rescue the drowning victims. Molly and her captain are once again able to hear the angels cheer because they’re together. Don’t stand there gaping, you look like an idiot. I have had to listen to those ridiculous lyrics so often even _I_ am unable to delete them, sad though it is. Have you had breakfast yet?”

John just stared.

“Let’s go in and I’ll explain while we’re enjoying Mrs Hudson’s scrambled eggs. You look like you could do with them and this morning I’m in such a good mood I have to confess I’m not entirely adverse to them either. In fact, I think I’ll have black pudding while I'm at it.”

***

A few weeks later Sherlock hit the enter key on Molly’s keyboard with a satisfied smirk. 

“There,” he said, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “Even if Moriarty had a key that gave him free access to all the computer systems in the world he wouldn’t be able to detect this neat little gem.”

“That’s good, Sherlock.” Molly squinted at the shopping list again and threw the required eyeballs into the Harrods shopping bag. She hesitated a moment and added an additional pair.

“Those are on the house,” she smiled. “Are you sure that will be all? I won’t be around for the next three weeks so you’d better be certain.”

He eyed the contents of the bag with approval. “Thank you Molly, but this will do perfectly for now. Are you off on a little holiday then?”

“Yes, I’m so excited. We’re leaving for South Africa in two days. John made it sound so attractive in the blog.”

He noticed the small gold band flashing on her left hand.

“I suppose it’s pretty if you’re interested in nature and wildlife,” he conceded. “And congratulations on your engagement. I’m sure you’ll be very happy together. Please do send us an invitation to the wedding as I’m certain both John and Mrs Hudson will wish to attend. In fact, you should consider asking Mrs Hudson to be your witness. If it weren’t for her there wouldn’t have been a wedding. Have a nice time, Molly, and Martin as well of course. I do hope for your sake Douglas will be flying the plane during take-off and landing though.”

Molly shrugged her shoulders. “You’re right. I will do that, that’s a great idea. I should have thought of that myself. She will be so happy and it will be the best way to repay her for her kindness. But I want you to know Martin is perfectly capable of flying a plane, Sherlock. Maybe you should fly MJN Air one day and find out for yourself.”

“No thank you. I think I’ll refrain from going abroad from now on. I find it does interfere with The Work in a most reprehensible manner.” He hefted the shopping bag from the bench and assessed its weight. It felt satisfactorily heavy. 

“Goodbye, Molly.”

“Bye Sherlock, see you in a few weeks.”

Outside the sun was shining. He hailed a taxi and instructed the cabbie to drive by way of Harrods and wait in front while he dashed inside to buy some strawberry tartlets. He was sure Mrs Hudson would wish to celebrate the announcement of Molly’s and Martin’s engagement and it wouldn’t do him any harm to ingratiate himself a bit with his landlady in supplying the necessary parts.

**Author's Note:**

> Two great artists made art for this story. 
> 
> The lovely azuremonkey manipulated two wonderful pieces. You can imagine I felt very honoured indeed.
> 
> See the pieces here. http://thefixedfoot.livejournal.com/41551.html  
> The equally lovely trishkafibble astonished me with her art as well. You can view it here. http://archiveofourown.org/works/585595 
> 
> I’m very grateful to both artists for creating such happy and inspired art for a story I wrote.


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